Trash and Treasure
My home, like my mind, is cluttered with a lifetime of goodness unrealized.
EDIT: I've been thinking about that opening line. What is unrealized? The fact that we have collected these treasures is an indication of realization. The art is evidence of realizing vision. I think I am referencing the unpursued paths. The orphaned works. The relationships shelved or forgotten.
Every journey (creative, intellectual, physical) begins with such unfettered passion, but when the length of the effort is realized, something more exciting quickly and easily takes its place.
I had a friend who recently abandoned his life for something much simpler. He sold his broken-down home filled with a lifetime of detritus for a song and bought a small trailer in which to live. I say ‘had’ a friend because once he climbed into his little white car, I have not heard from or seen him since.
A decade older than me, Fred was never a big brother or father figure. He was a project friend. One of those people sent to teach you humility and patience. I was confident that with some love and guidance, he could come out of his shell and be a real friend. Over time I spent increasing amounts of energy trying to reach his heart and trying to help him find happiness after his wife of 35 years passed away.
Fred's significant other is a testimonial to the flexibility of the human heart. She was an insufferable woman to me. Always EXTREMELY opinionated and very vocal. Only, her opinions weren't usually very good. Demanding is a word that comes to mind. But, she made Fred happy. She was the personality he didn't have. When she died, he suddenly had to find a way to function as a human. He just couldn't do it. He stopped eating (mostly) and moped around all the time, refusing to attend any invitation I extended and resisting to seek any form of happiness. I understand loss and grief makes us sink to the depths of despair, but everyone has to come up for air from time to time. Except Fred.
Her death was unpreventable. She (Lenaie), was in her mid-80's and took deplorable care of herself. She was a brittle diabetic, grotesquely overweight and her excitable personalty just made it all worse. So when she got a worsening respiratory infection and refused to go to the doctor, the conclusion was foregone. Yet, Fred blamed himself for her death. IF he had taken better care of her, IF he had forced her to the doctor... so many regrets, this man.
It's ironic, the doctor part, because he himself hates the idea of doctors. I once had to cajole and force him to go when a hernia was pushing itself out of his body.
To be honest, I'm a little worried he may have slinked away like a dying dog to end his suffering. I hope not. His personal beliefs (if they were his personal beliefs) strictly prohibited self-deletion. But, the heart can drive us mad. And he was mad to start.
I passed by his house (old house?) this morning and knocked, hoping the new tenets or he would be there. If nothing else, the new owners could tell me, 'yes, he's gone' and not just dodging calls. But, no one was home. Just a big ugly, empty house.
And it is big and ugly. Just a two story stucco box that over 30 years he endlessly, and not very skillfully, added and added too. He refused to sell it to anyone he knew because he was worred he had made the building structurally unstable. That's part of why he sold it so cheaply. That and the fact that the 4 Great Danes living there with he and his wife for about 10 years. The place REEKS of dog even from the front porch.
I drove through the alley after getting no one home, thinking maybe some evidence might be visible from the back. It is the kind of neighborhood with dumpsters in the alleyway that a big truck empties. So it is were much of the detritus of his life ended up. In and around the dumpster. How sad when we spotted an 8x10 portrait of he and his late wife cast there with the other broken dreams. Did he not want it? Did it simply get caught up in the bloodletting of things that he had to experience?
I told my wife I'd burn our portraits before letting them end up as refuse on the side of the road. She is worthy of at least that much honor, I think.
It is a shrine to his shame.
And so, I am reflecting this afternoon about the mountains of art and experience manifested in little things. The seashells, the sand in bottles, the paintings, ceramic cows, toys, coins, old cameras, glass beads, sculptures... the list goes on and on of treasures that define my adult life. These things seem worth millions to me... and maybe to some special few they would be valuable mementos... but in an irony, I think to most, my treasures would be another man's trash.
Such is the nature of THINGS. When we are gone, people do not remember what car we drove, the color of our couches, or how new our lawnmower was (or wasn't). They remember the love we showed. Our laughter and insights. Books and music we shared. And maybe there are some things they would cherish. But mostly they remember us. The spark that is who we are.
Share that spark with as many as possible. Start the fires of love in as many hearts as you can. Do not worry if it is or is not reciprocated, just make the effort. If nothing else, you will be remembered not as a reclusive weirdo (ahem, Mister Wolf), but as a loving person who cared about others first.
And I think that's beautiful.
Love always,
Charlie
#essay #inspiration #motivation #memoir #write #100daystooffload #osxs
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Thank you for coming here and walking through the garden of my mind. No day is as brilliant in its moment as it is gilded in memory. Embrace your experience and relish gorgeous recollection.
Into every life a little light will shine. Thank you for being my luminance in whatever capacity you may. Shine on, you brilliant souls!
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