Lessons in Survival
Packing makes me think about all the places I have lived. About my mother in 1992. Packing up our house alone, tucked in those cobblestone streets. Three small children needing, my father finishing his dissertation; her hands puffed up–turned black and blue.
Sitting in my room before college, Molly gave me a blanket like the one I loved to sleep with at her house. I’ve never used it. I’m getting better at not deeming the sacred unusable. But, it’s a problem.
M and I went through all our boxes that were put on hold–the archives. They are mostly books and things that remind us that we used to make art. We married it all, even our portfolios. I found all my Joni Albums. They never made it onto my computer. We listen to them all.
It made me think of LMU, the song book they gave me, a monument to our time together–or taking showers our first semester in Azusa Gardens. Playing Song to a Seagull and getting dressed in that massive closet. All the mornings Vicki and I would get up and go to the APU “gym.” Alisha already on the treadmill somehow.
I do belive in doorways. There are seasons, phases of the moon, planets. We are provided with doorways and rooms to enter. There are many things that are left undone.
Or. Perhaps it is not that things are undone, but rather, there are times we must except that space has Given You It’s Best–
Do you dare to ask for more?
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