Remnants

The last time I was visiting Mom, she handed me a small plastic sandwich bag. “This is stuff I cleaned off your father’s dresser. Do you want any of it?” I studied the bag, turning it over in my hand. Seriously? I squinted through the plastic, my mind flipping back and forth between: Of course I want it! and Why would I want any of this?

When my son was little, he would pick up all sorts of remnants that he found on the floor. If we walked into a fabric or craft store, he would gather balls of thread that had fallen off the frayed edges of material on the bolt, pieces of silk flowers that were lying on the floor, buttons that had fallen off clothing. His pockets were never empty, and I had to be careful to check every single pocket on laundry day.

The bag my mother handed me was much like the contents of my young son’s pockets—remnants of a life of gathering. The bag contained pieces of unrelated objects collected on the daily journey and deposited into a common container on the top of Dad’s dresser. All they had in common was the container in which they ended up. And the man who had gathered them.

The bag held washers, screws, broken things, a bunch of oddball items. I sat down on the floor and untied the knot at the top of the bag. I stirred the contents with my finger, revealing all of the treasures that Dad had felt it necessary to keep. The metal spring from a wooden clothespin. A ring that I had made by winding yellow electrical wire around itself. Around and around and around. A firecracker with an old, frayed fuse, but no doubt just as explosive as ever. Two broken angel wings, clearly from two different angels.

No. Dad was not an angel wings kind of man. Two broken eagle wings, clearly from two different eagles. But with a lack context, they are the wings of angels in my mind. Under the circumstances and left to my interpretatin, angels are more appropriate.

Why did Dad collect these items, number one, and save them all, number two? What was it about the yellow wire ring? The firecracker? The angel wings?

This bag might seem to be full of useless items, some broken or seemingly meaningless. But they had meaning to Dad. He saved them all for a reason. Perhaps he intended to glue the wings back on the angels. Find the wooden parts of the clothespin. Set off the one remaining firecracker. Or maybe he was waiting to see how someone else might piece together the remnants he gathered up along his way.

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Ghosts from the past

Here is an interesting piece of trivia from my life, and something that has shaped who I am as a person.

My second-grade teacher hated children.

Yes, Friends, it’s true. I was seven years old, and my teacher hated me… not because of who I was, but because of who she was. But at seven years old, I didn’t have the experience or the wisdom to recognize that. I sat in her classroom every day for 180 days knowing she hated children.

And she was mean.

People who hate children should not become teachers. That should be a no-brainer. They tend to take out their frustrations on the children in their classrooms. Innocent children who are doing what every child is expected to do. And yet, it happens. I have come across several teachers in my lifetime who truly did not like children.

Why, you ask, is my second-grade teacher important all these many years later?

Yesterday, I stood in front of a group of 20+ students who were participating in their freshman orientation to college. I gave them information about how college is different from high school. I told them to use their resources. I encouraged them to seek out their professors. I reminded them that while it’s their job to go to class, study, and do their homework, it’s our job to help them be successful. And I told them I do my job because I love working with students.

And I meant it.

{Photo by Rene Bernal on Unsplash}

You are HERE

You are HERE.

Most people think of HERE as a physical locale, and temporarily, it may be. But HERE (in the big picture) is your physical body and your emotional and spiritual wellbeing. In fact, HERE is less a physical locale than a mental state of being. HERE is a permanent but fluid state. Because no matter where you are, you still have to deal with the stuff that you can’t shake off—your health and your state of mind.  The good thing is, if you don’t like being HERE, you can change it.

When you say, “I’ll be happy when I can move to a warmer climate,” or “If only I made more money…,” you are stating that you are not happy right now. Right HERE. And if that is the case, moving to a new place or making more money won’t resolve the unhappy in the HERE.

No matter how much you try, you cannot run from HERE. Who you are, what haunts you, what keeps you up at night, and what pushes you on… these things will stay with you. They will follow you. HERE will always be a part of you.

If you face the HERE, you can do the work you need to do. Figure out who you are and what makes you tick. Learn to love yourself and be content with your situation. You have all the necessary tools and resources available to you. Discover them, grow them, and practice using them so you can become your own Master Craftsman. You will always be able to go back and draw on those resources when you need to.

Because no matter how much work you do and how much change you undergo, no matter how far you travel, you will always be HERE. There will always be work to be done.

You are HERE. Welcome!

{Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash}

Tangled

Somehow, my yellow yarn became hopelessly tangled. The skein began to fall apart, and pretty soon, it was all just a heap of string and knots. This evening, I decided to roll it into a ball. I cut it free from my knitting project, and I began to roll. At first, it was pretty easy. But soon, I hit some rough patches. There were several knots that seemed, at first, to be un-tangle-able.

But here’s the funny thing about knots. If you get frustrated and impatient, the knots become tighter and stronger and less manageable. But if you take your time, remain calm, and put in the patience to knead them, loosen them, and examine their workings, you can actually figure out how to unravel them and get back to something that is useful and knot-less.

These knots, they are much like life. If you hit a rough patch, or things get crazy, and you get frustrated and impatient, the situation can become more difficult and lead to greater challenge. If you pull too tightly, you can get yourself inextricably tangled in a mess that is greater than when it began. In these situations, it pays to step back and gather the patience to work through whatever you are going through.

If you look at the big picture, you can trace the path to the source—the root cause of the problem–and work your way through. Systematically. Methodically. Finding the problem and looking for the best direction.

With patience, I am creating a useful ball of yarn from the mess that was my yellow skein. I have worked the ball over, under, and through many loopholes, and I have loosened lots of tight spots. I am getting there. But I’m reaching my limit for now.

In the morning, I will pick up where I left off. Maybe I’ll give in to frustration, work through what I can, and cut off the rest. Or maybe, I will gather the patience to finish the job, to work out all the knots, and roll the rest of the yarn into the ball I’ve started.

It all depends, I guess, on what tomorrow brings.

Surrender

At the beginning of this year, I came across a picture of a knitting project—a temperature blanket which is completed at the rate of one row per day. I’m not sure what possessed me to take this on, but the finished product looked intriguing. One row per day. How difficult could that be? On January first, or maybe the second, I selected an array of colors—one for each of the ten-degree temperature ranges we’re likely to experience here in the Northeast. I was ready to create a beautiful blanket. One row per day, I thought. I can commit to that!

It wasn’t long before I realized what I had gotten myself into. As I began to knit my one row each night, I realized I had absolutely no control over what the finished product would look like. I could not choose the color I would use each night. Nope. That was chosen for me based on the temperature that day. Suddenly, I was not the creator of the blanket. I was merely an unwitting tool in the finished product. The blanket was going to be its own story, and it was not my story to tell.

Now here we are, almost halfway through the year. I have kept up with my temperature blanket, and I am finding the results somewhat interesting. My colors are based on the high temperature of the day, and there are occasions when I consider fudging just a bit. Ooo, 59°. Perhaps I could knit a row of yellow, my 60s color… but I don’t.

I’ve realized, knitting a temperature blanket has been a giant lesson in surrender.  And this lesson comes at a time when I desperately need it. My children need my advice more than ever.

But do they really? Shouldn’t they figure things out on their own without me meddling in their business? Without me throwing myself into the decisions that will ultimately prepare them to face more and more challenging decisions? Shouldn’t I let them be?

They don’t need me the way they once did, and this is a challenging place for a parent. I won’t always be here, and I know my job is to let them flounder until they ask. My job is to give them the confidence that they have the skills they need. My job is to surrender control and trust that I have done my job in preparing them for exactly this. Even though I might want to help them out just this once… I have to let it go. I have to let them soar or fall so they will learn how to keep moving.

I may not like it any more than I like switching to a colder (or warmer) color in my knitting. But that’s exactly why knitting this blanket at this time has given me such a great lesson. I am not the one in control. I have to let go. My children are ready to tell their own stories.

Weaving

On my way to work one morning this week, I was listening to a story on NPR about a third grade teacher in LA and her chance meeting on an airplane—sitting next to a young soldier as he was preparing for deployment to Afghanistan. She talked to him, inquiring about his life and his training. After a lengthy conversation, they exchanged contact information, and the teacher had her young students send letters to the soldier while he was deployed. When he returned, he visited her and met her students, and now the two are like family. This story made me [once again] realize how deeply interconnected we all are.

We all spend our lives creating a beautiful and unique tapestry that tells our story. Each individual we encounter, every experience we have, each place we visit becomes a part of our lives and influences the greater whole of our identity. We are not only living our own tapestry, but we are contributing to that of others. And when you think of it that way, it is easy to visualize just how much—or how little—these pieces may contribute to the overall fabric. Some elements may be a thin strand woven into the overall piece. Or they may be such a major part of our lives that they are much of the background color.

My life is a fabric woven of chance encounters, momentary connections, and long-term friends and family; they all contribute to the beauty of the whole. They all contribute to who I am. My tapestry has incorporated positive and negative, intricately and inextricably woven together and connected to the lives of so many others.

Thread after thread after thread—various colors, shades, tensions, and textures—add richness of experience and interaction to the final product.

Someday, when I can more clearly see the greater whole as I look back over all of the things that made up my life, I will begin to see how the good and the bad, the momentous and the trivial were all necessary in adding depth and detail and richness to my life.

But for now, I’m going to work on making new connections and having new adventures so I can add a smattering of colorful threads. Then, when I look back over the whole, I can point to this time and say, “Right there–that is where I shook things up a bit!”

{Photo by Camille San Vicente on Unsplash}