Archive for November, 2009
collide
It’s been a long time since 22
I don’t remember you looking any better
But then again I don’t remember you
John Mayer, Who Says
As Thanksgiving, Advent and my 31st birthday collide in this frenetic weekend, I can’t help giving thanks for paths and roads behind me. I can’t help anticipating the journey ahead. There is so much forever undone. So much left to do. So much undiscovered and unrecognizable. So much lost and gained. So much defeat and glory. So much failing and grace.
As I sail on, I am comforted by Madeleine L’Engle, who shared November 29 with me as her birth-date as well.
To be human is, yes, to be fallible….But our very fallibility is one of our human glories. If we are fallible we are free to grow and develop. If we are infallible we are rigid, stuck in one position, as immobile as those who could not let go the idea that planet earth is the centre of all things.
And in the early glow of an Advent candle, I can’t help remembering that Christ saw fit to become human, to take on this frame and dust. To show us how crazy beautiful it can be.
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Cause some things never change
I know you’re still my same girl
Same Girl, Jack Johnson
The girl with a messy ponytail was familiar. Her over-sized pleather purse, complete with jangly keychains and a flashy velcro wallet, reminded me of something. Of someone. I recognized the way she quietly paid for the organic peppermint patty in the line next to me at the grocery store. But it was the yellowed and tattered 1972 edition of The Mystery of the Brass Bound Trunk peeking out of her purse that brought tears to my eyes.
I wanted to say something. I wanted to hug her. I wanted to tell her that Brass Bound Trunk was the first Nancy Drew book I read (and I carried it around in my purse, too). That peppermint patties were my favorite. That I had a purse and keychains just like hers when I was a girl. But I didn’t want to interrupt her. She was so unassuming. So in her own little world. So pure.
In these precious new days of motherhood, I have often wondered, “Who am I?” Markers that used to identify my place on the map, my true north, have long since vanished in the bends and curves of fierce love. And, for the most part, it’s probably good. Many of those markers were things I shouldn’t have been using to identify myself anyway.
And yet, it was good to see this mini-me today. To remember things about myself – elemental things. Like a lifelong love for peppermint and chocolate. Like a collection of velcro wallets. Like devouring Nancy Drew mysteries in a matter of hours. Because it’s good to remember our old stories even as we write the new and exciting pages of our lives.
When I got home, I reached for The Mystery of the Brass Bound Trunk, my own 1972 edition that I keep on a special shelf in our library. It’s tattered, too, with dogeared, yellow pages. I opened to the first page and began reading while Jude slept on my lap.
“There was a hum of excitement on the ocean-going vessel…”
I gently turned the thick pages and inhaled their earthy fragrance. And for a few minutes, I reconnected to a forgotten place. A forgotten time. A forgotten girl. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized she’s really not forgotten or gone or so different. She’s the same girl. Just more complete.
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