Saturday, March 26, 2016
The new born, caught in the primordial stew of beginnings, is unable to recognize the difference between self and other. She grasps and roots at inanimate objects with the same voracity she reaches for her mother. It is a time of differentiation, a time of definitions
The toddler understands more of his surroundings His eyes survey the landscape and fall lovingly on one gleaming object or another. The word mine dribbles from his mouth as he learns the pleasure of lust. The pleasure of ownership. He lugs his baubles with him and looks longingly when his line of vision is distorted, object permanence has long been mastered.
The school age child shoulders a mountain of books. A transition has occurred from ownership of inanimate objects to attainment of knowledge. She transports with her a means to an end. She holds in her precious hands the tools that will lead to an as yet ill defined version of success.
The young adult has completed the transition from objects, to knowledge, to affection. He grasps tightly to his beloved, no longer satisfied with the baubles of the toddler or the knowledge of the school child. He has traded in such worldly artifacts for something deeper, more complicated.
The new parent once more finds her arms encumbered. Whether a crying baby, a car seat, or a dirty diaper, there is not much advantage in deeper contemplation. Like the new born, she often finds herself grasping in all directions. The lines of differentiation are again blurred.
Middle age can be a time of great consternation. One's arms are often empty. His children have grown and can carry some of their own load. Instead he struggles with a metaphorical burden. Will his children be successful? Will his parents age well? Will he make a difference in his profession, in the world?
The aged, once again, finds her hands full. Whether it be a walker or cane. She struggles with physical frailty and laments that others have to do the heavy lifting for her. The time of building has long gone.
If we are lucky, by the time we die, we have used or let go of most our material possessions, We have passed on knowledge to our loved ones. And we leave this world empty, just as we entered it.
We are born with our arms wide open, and we die in much the same way.
Posted by Jordan Grumet at 4:42 PM
Thursday, March 10, 2016
But as everything in life, even perfection has to end. We packed up our bags, loaded onto the plane, and taxied back home. That evening sitting in bed, I contemplated the little string bracelet that had been my passport to such thrilling adventures. My vacation was over but for some reason I couldn't bare to cut the cord. I couldn't remove the bracelet.
Now the edges had become frayed and the color had worn from the string. My skin didn't take too kindly to the material, and a small itchy rash had started to form. My mind new that this bracelet was no longer my vacation. It was no longer my happiness. It was a small vestige of that which had once been. A physical, tangible reminder of the ephemeral.
As the days grew long, and I threw myself head first into reintegrating into my busy life, I pined for the simplicity and satisfaction that that little piece of jewelry signified. It was no longer the thing of my desire but a wisp, a memory. It was my vacation on life support; gasping and sputtering and just barley alive.
And I clung to it during sleepless nights and overbearing days. My wrist became fiery red and itchiness turned to pain. Whenever things were going badly, I looked down hopefully at my wrist wishing to recreate a moment, a small taste of what was gone.
Eventually the pain got bad enough and I propped my arm belly up on the counter. I grabbed a knife and pressed the dull side to my wrist resting just below the band. Then I pushed up quickly.
The string exhaled, splayed, and fell lifelessly onto the counter. In an instant my vacation, a living/breathing thing, transitioned from a palpable finite object to a memory.
The rash cleared over the next few weeks, but I often caught myself looking down at my wrist. Always half expecting to see the band still there. For just a little longer.
Afraid of what it would mean to hold on.
Afraid of what it would mean to let go.
Posted by Jordan Grumet at 2:30 PM