Tonight I went and had Sunday dinner at my grandmother’s house, which is pretty much a family ritual. We always watch a movie a little while after dinner, and tonight it was “27 Dresses”. As much as I like it, I’d already seen it twice, so I decided to bake cookies instead.
When I cook, I pretty much need music; the only exception is when I have company to talk to. Since everyone else was distracted by the comedic stylings of Katherine Heigl, I enjoyed Dido’s company instead. I was fond of “No Angel” a few years back, and it was nice to hear it again. It was also really cool to have some of the lyrics actually apply to experiences of mine – I didn’t date in high school, so I was spared the romantic strife that Dido went through.
Anyway, with the dishwasher running and the oven preheating, it was getting pretty warm in the small pantry, so I went outside to get some fresh air and let the butter hit room temperature.
Without meaning to, I ventured outside barefoot. I wandered out onto the damp grass while staring in awe at the sunset. Suddenly, a thought popped into my head. I let it sit there for a moment and marinate, then let it continue on its course. Here is what I thought, paraphrased so it’s more coherent:
Life is like a ride down a dirt road with a flatbed truck, and on the back you have all these boxes made up of hobbies, grudges, passions, personality traits, nightmares, values, interests, and memories, among other things. In my case, there are a LOT of boxes back there; I’m a bit of a packrat. I love too many things to keep a nice orderly truck. And sometimes, as you’re travelling down the dirt road of your life, something falls out of one of the boxes. It’s still on the road of your life and you can still go back and pick it up if you want, provided it hasn’t wandered off, but sometimes you’ll act as if it’s gone for good. Something fell of my truck a few months ago, and I didn’t go right back to pick it up. I acted as if a number of boxes weren’t on my truck.
And walking around the lawn of many happy afternoons in my childhood, I remembered how much I love staring at sunsets, how great it feels to walk on soft wet grass, and how much a big, freshly picked chive tastes like spring onion. My childhood memory box must have been buried under a bunch of other, more “important” boxes. Why am I rejecting and ignoring all these parts of myself? Not just the memories, but my values?
As I stretched my arms, my dress pulled tight at my chest. I stared down at myself, reminding my brain that I’m grown up now. Things aren’t as black and white as they were in my youth. But does that mean I should ignore the wisdom of my inner child, the things that make me happy right to my very core? Of course not. It looks like the back of my truck needs some better labelling and organising. Also, I have a long drive ahead of me – I have to go back and pick up a little package labelled “Self-respect”.
That’s all for now, folks,
M.
Listening to: “Any Day Now” by The Miniatures. This is one of those songs that makes you want to dance, and the guitar is just the right mix of crunchy and melodic. They are from Kingston, Ontario, Canada, and their myspace page is here: http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewProfile&friendID=11248170.
