While I'm too busy chasing a toddler and squeezing in some editing time to delve into significant introspection, I've enjoyed a few epiphanies in recent months. Some startled me. Some confused me. And some made me sad. More than once I thought,
Why didn't I realize this before?
In no specific order, my list of aha's . . .
*I like to be around books, to own books, to stack books in every room, but
I do not like to read books. Weird, eh? For an editor? I've long attributed this to my 9-5 gig. Why would I want to read for pleasure when I've spent working hours reading and correcting? It's like asking a movie critic to watch a flick without any internal commentary or analysis. Impossible, right? To a degree, that is true for me. I cannot stomach predictable writing (a.k.a. Sparks, Kingsbury, and so forth) or horrible writing (Meyer, you know who you are). Yet, there's more to to my book reading avoidance.
My husband gave me a copy of Flannery O'Connor's complete works four years ago. I've read one third of it. Why? Because it's too wonderful for me. If I read it, my soul stirs. My mind sparks. The writer who lives in my gut tries to surface. I dream of days spent locked in my office where I can be free to write whatever rises from beneath. I'm too scared to let her out. I'm too busy to nurture her ideas. I'm too worried she will consume me. I'm too freaked out to speak about this writer in the first person, to claim her. So I stick to editing and a written article here and there. When I write, it's an assignment; someone else's idea. I can do that all day. It provides enough nourishment to keep my writing fiend at bay. I've been snuffing out any flare ups for a long time.
*When we adopted, we experienced positive reactions from our family. It never occurred to me, at that time, any family would be anything less than happy with adoption news. And why is that? Well, the answer just dawned on me. My grandparents cared for numerous children in the foster system for several years, most of which were before my time (being the baby and all). Two of those darlings became my Aunt Barbara and my Uncle Marvin. Never thought anything of it. That's just who they were, my family. Now three of my grandparents' grandchildren are adoptive parents. In fact, I never even mentioned this to our case worker during the home study because
adoption was so part of my family, I never even noticed.
*In October, my mother's home finally sold. Before the closing, my siblings hosted an estate sale. To try and capture that event--watching your parents' possessions leaving in the hands of strangers--is beyond any words I know. Not really sad . . . well, maybe a little sad . . . mostly odd . . . and strangely endearing. For each piece, you have a memory (or a million memories). It's not only your parents' things that are leaving for a new home, but it is also your childhood. Never again will one home hold the familiar: the rug, the towels, the books, the pans, the Christmas decor. The material things you associate with home and heritage are now spread throughout the county in numerous other homes.
The items you think are important or special end up being the most random objects. For instance, my mother's measuring cup. She used one measuring cup my entire childhood. And from the reactions of my siblings, their childhoods too. One measuring cup we'd seen thousand of times instantly brought back countless meals she made. It evoked a memory of her in the kitchen, wearing a blue checked apron while cooking dinner. Or her measuring rice to make cereal for breakfast. Or flour to make biscuits. I didn't take the measuring cup, nor did any of my siblings (as far as I know). For me, it was too special an item to keep. If it rested in my cupboards, it'd bring memories too tender. So I cherish the realization of its place in my life and the mother it represents; one who certainly kept me well fed. :-)
This measuring cup realization made me wonder what Anna will treasure, what item will conjure up feelings of home and family. I store keepsakes and plan to leave her the valuables, but what will speak love to her the most?
*Also while rummaging through my mother's bed and table linens, I realized where I got my love of lace and florals. Why it did not connect with me before, I do not know.
I love florals and lace because my mother loved florals and lace. It was totally a subconscious choice. All these years I thought I fancied these fancies because it was my own independent thinking. Ha! And then I was really thrown for a loop when I found the pillowcases from my childhood bed linen set. Soft coral flowers with hints of green leaves and brown branches. My bedroom decor chosen by my mother in my early elementary years was coral pink/peach, yellow, and brown. Y'all. Do you know the color scheme in my daughter's nursery and subsequent big girl room? Ahem. Coral pink, yellow, and brown. These connections to my parents I never knew I had . . . leave me speechless.
*Did you know, in the Christmas tune "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year," one of the lyrics read, "There'll be
scary ghost stories"? I had no idea until this year when driving in the car listening to a Christmas CD, and bam, there it was. Who associates Christmas with ghost stories?
*Speaking of Christmas . . . . I chatted with my aunt via phone before the big holiday. We talked a bit about
the sadness of Christmas. When death's taken family members and age has led us along, the festive season changes in experience and memory. It made me realize more and more that as I age, less and less of the people who once made my holiday special will be alive. That I will be the one making the memories for my children. That those who remember that "one" Christmas or the time this or that happened or someone who can vouch about the superiority of my grandmother's chocolate pie . . . those people will not be around. Of course, this is not all gloom and tears. Life, thankfully, marches on; and Christmas is about waaaay more than family or the lack thereof.
*Whether I like it or not, I am
raising a Texan. :-)
