I clipped the last ornament, the star at the top of the tree, to the bough, when there was a pop and tinkle of breaking glass. Looking down I saw the pieces of an ornament littering the floor. Moving down the ladder with care, my joints creaking, my heart breaking, I made my way to the pieces. Some were glittery and some opaque, some shiny with reflections of the tree lights, others translucent and silvery.
No particular piece replicated the beauty of the once whole ornament. Each piece, a discrete, and uninteresting shard. Tears flowed as I remembered the particular care I took over the years to shelter this ornament from harm, wrapping it carefully in tissue, tucking it into a sturdy box, layering soft wool around the box to prevent punctures or jostles that might penetrate the outer layer of the box.
This small globe of glass given more care because it was rescued from a fire that had consumed my life. I had found it laying among the ashes, intact, no damage to it's shiny, sparkling exterior. No marks or mars to it's beauty. It lay among the burnt offerings of my life. Nothing survived the heat and smoke that roared through the house that night, taking everything I counted as mine.
Except this one fragile globe of glass looking like it had fallen from the sky and nestled there serenely proclaiming that in the midst of great destruction something had survived.
What value I gave it after that. I took it out at times to stare at it even when it was not Christmas. I remembered the trees it hung on in my old home, stately and covered with tinsel and ornaments and lights, shining in the darkness; people stopping to stare at the brilliant light in the window. I remembered the laughter of family, gathered around the table. I remembered the day our daughter was born and our son and a daughter after that. I remembered the days of summer when the thoughts of Christmas were far away and the days were thick with heat and humidity. We would move slowly in the heat fanning ourselves as the sun moved across the sky. I remembered my husband, coming in the door after work, boisterous and loud, calling to the children. I remembered life in that house, an enchanted life, lived by people without care or sorrow, blessed with all that was good or so it now seemed. Staring into that shiny globe I saw love, and laughter, and blessing. All that remained was that shining ball of memory. Holding it gently my thoughts drifting across years of joy, remembering all. No crystal ball conjured up more images of happiness than that ornament from those many years past.
I shattered. The pieces of me lying in the wreckage, each discrete shard of me reflecting back the past. My daughter's smiling face there, my husband's grin when he figured out the plumbing puzzle, my kitchen warm and filled with the fragrance of bread baking, cinnamon smells and vanilla too. Our pets, cat and dog, other pieces of me laying there. The conjured images pieces of a sorrow so vast I could not contain it, a sorrow that spread around me, covered me, buried me. The pieces not beautiful but broken. Where was the soft tissue paper to wrap my heart in, the sturdy box barricade, the wool to surround and protect me from harsh jostling and stabbing pain. All that I had left was that one beautiful glass ornament; shattered.
I swept up the pieces and laid them on the tissue paper carefully wrapping them and tucking them into the box, laying the box in the nest of wool. Silly old woman I thought as I wrapped and tucked; the broken could not be restored. That small globe the only proof of miraculous survival. Whatever resurrection I believed in shattered too. I sat in my chair, broken and bowed. I turned to the tree watching the twinkle of lights and glass, seeing again in my mind's eye, those Christmases past, ones I could not reclaim. I rocked, the light from the tree growing and twisting, flaming with anger, fear, sorrow. Doused by each tear. Outside the snow fell and the black ashes of lament were covered over with white as day turned into night.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Saturday, November 07, 2009
Take Down the Pictures, I Won't be Living Here Anymore
Taking one last breath, she passed away. Looking around the small, sterile room all that remained of her life was hanging on the walls - pictures of family and friends, a painting done by her husband, a still life done by a Dutchman hundreds of years ago.
The picture of a bowl, some fruit, a bottle of wine. No human breath gracing it's canvas and yet somewhere in the background, out of site, the sense that a human hand had laid out this table. The colors muted and funereal, the air surrounding the objects dusty and muted.
But the fruit, ripe and asking to be eaten. The produce of some faraway farmers labor calling from the bowl for a disposition. If not eaten left to rot, fruit of life or forgotten fruit. Forbidden fruit perhaps, lush and beckoning, worth the price of the fall? A mere apple, the symbol of the first temptation. Could this red, ripe apple really be the tantalizing source of sinful preoccupation?
Then the other painting, done by her husband. A small house in a valley, surrounded by mountains, cows peacefully grazing. A pastoral scene executed with little skill. The colors bright but not real, the perspective slightly skewed, as if the valley has tilted slightly in the shadow of the mountains.
There is a sense in this valley of solitude and quiet. No humans in this picture either and yet again the sense that somewhere unseen is the hand of a farm family, carefully tending the cattle, a wisp of smoke from the chimney suggesting food and warmth necessary to survival. The great mountains behind looming protectively or perhaps ominously, snow on their peaks suggesting that soon this valley too will be shrouded in the color of winter.
Perhaps this is the land of Nod, the place East of Eden where, after that first bite of lucious apple, mankind was banished to. A place, not unfriendly in this picture but with it's shadows lurking. Different than Eden in it's insecurity, no guaranteed warmth in the shadow of sin.
The woman lying on the bed is still, no breath moves her chest. She has departed this room, a still life. Her last words an odd request considering that she spent her life in pious devotion to an unseen God she believed in and then at the moment that she stood on the threshold of infinity her only consideration was about tidying up.
The family pictures a tribute to her devotion, she bore these children both by choice and dictate. No consideration ever that there was not an obligation to do so, modern science not yet available to offer her another option. Her devotion not in question, she did the best she could and her offspring have done her proud. One wonders if they would have earned a place on this wall if this was not so. Would they have been banished to Nod if they had eaten the fruit, fallen to temptation and sin. An unanswered question. She was not a god but certainly her firm rule in the domain of her family was never questioned. She did pass judgement on the rightness and wrongness of their behavior and there was no question as to her right to do so.
The light in the room changes as the sun moves lower, a dusty grey pervades. A still life on the bed, a still life on the walls, a stillness that is so thick that no sound can invade it. The objects of a life reflected in the stillness. The fruit in the bowl, the small house, the cows, the children. And behind them the stories of her life. Her daughter stands and slowly begins to strip the walls. No one lives here anymore.
The picture of a bowl, some fruit, a bottle of wine. No human breath gracing it's canvas and yet somewhere in the background, out of site, the sense that a human hand had laid out this table. The colors muted and funereal, the air surrounding the objects dusty and muted.
But the fruit, ripe and asking to be eaten. The produce of some faraway farmers labor calling from the bowl for a disposition. If not eaten left to rot, fruit of life or forgotten fruit. Forbidden fruit perhaps, lush and beckoning, worth the price of the fall? A mere apple, the symbol of the first temptation. Could this red, ripe apple really be the tantalizing source of sinful preoccupation?
Then the other painting, done by her husband. A small house in a valley, surrounded by mountains, cows peacefully grazing. A pastoral scene executed with little skill. The colors bright but not real, the perspective slightly skewed, as if the valley has tilted slightly in the shadow of the mountains.
There is a sense in this valley of solitude and quiet. No humans in this picture either and yet again the sense that somewhere unseen is the hand of a farm family, carefully tending the cattle, a wisp of smoke from the chimney suggesting food and warmth necessary to survival. The great mountains behind looming protectively or perhaps ominously, snow on their peaks suggesting that soon this valley too will be shrouded in the color of winter.
Perhaps this is the land of Nod, the place East of Eden where, after that first bite of lucious apple, mankind was banished to. A place, not unfriendly in this picture but with it's shadows lurking. Different than Eden in it's insecurity, no guaranteed warmth in the shadow of sin.
The woman lying on the bed is still, no breath moves her chest. She has departed this room, a still life. Her last words an odd request considering that she spent her life in pious devotion to an unseen God she believed in and then at the moment that she stood on the threshold of infinity her only consideration was about tidying up.
The family pictures a tribute to her devotion, she bore these children both by choice and dictate. No consideration ever that there was not an obligation to do so, modern science not yet available to offer her another option. Her devotion not in question, she did the best she could and her offspring have done her proud. One wonders if they would have earned a place on this wall if this was not so. Would they have been banished to Nod if they had eaten the fruit, fallen to temptation and sin. An unanswered question. She was not a god but certainly her firm rule in the domain of her family was never questioned. She did pass judgement on the rightness and wrongness of their behavior and there was no question as to her right to do so.
The light in the room changes as the sun moves lower, a dusty grey pervades. A still life on the bed, a still life on the walls, a stillness that is so thick that no sound can invade it. The objects of a life reflected in the stillness. The fruit in the bowl, the small house, the cows, the children. And behind them the stories of her life. Her daughter stands and slowly begins to strip the walls. No one lives here anymore.
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