October 13, 2013

I Choose to Write My Own Damned Story.

“The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible”

Vladimir Nabokov

I have a notebook that sits upon my shelf, worn and dusted through these many years. Unassuming in presentation, you might never expect the pages to be ripely filled with such magnificence.

Such is the case, when reality becomes shrouded by illusion—our minds whittling away, weaving stories of all that might have been… boldly seizing the pen, to rewrite its version of that which it believes to be true.

Inside these pages, folded neatly, a ticket stub from my very first ballet. It was Christmas, 1987, and the ticket was a gift to my Mother. In the 1950s, she had worked as a waitress, and just down the street from the Cleveland Playhouse theater. Her eyes would always pull into a smile as she recalled the moments of her ‘memories past’—watching the women, dressed ‘to the nines’ in their ball gowns, and returning from a late night show. In those days, a theater such as this held no place for a simple diner waitress. But on this particular blustery, bitter winter’s night, she and I would be taking in a show.

Another page frames the note from my father, sent one Easter while I was stationed so very far away. My Father wasn’t ever one for letter writing, but on that day he was compelled to send me a short note, reading simply:

“I miss you, and wish you were here. It would have been a much better Easter.”

It was by far the best note I had ever, in my life, received. Because, it was then that I realized how widely a heart could be opened.

On the pages following are scattered ‘snapshots’ of my many mommy memories—a taped sequin from my toddler daughter’s favorite light-up shoes and a broken piece of my son’s Buzz Lightyear helmet.

And taped to another, and most certainly the reason why this book never quite closes… a half crushed peanut shell from a walkabout in the park with my very best spiritual friend.

I’ll bet you never realized just how good squirrel feeding was for one’s soul?

It’s so easy to get swept away in the trivial… the noise of our day can prove to be a noteworthy distraction.

My dears, there will always be those whose words might injure, dissuade, or otherwise pull you away from the little things that make life so very much, worthwhile.

That’s why I keep this notebook on my shelf—because these memories become far-more important as time and life circumstance begins to steal them away. In this way, my memories can stay.

And on those days when life seems intent on mottling up my moments… I simply dust off my notebook, flip through a few pages and am reminded,

“No, dear…this is my story.

I know it must seem such a silly approach—but, I believe theses pages exist for those tales, yet to be told.

And always, I choose to write my own damned story.

Namaste, and many blessings, my most beautiful friends

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Ed: Sara Crolick


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