I found them yesterday while searching through garbage bags in my basement..
They are treasures to me, works of art, of indescribable worth…and as I pulled them out from in between patio chair cushions, just the smell of old rubber, and dust was intoxicating to my my nostrils. I breathed deep.. and the memories flooded over me like warm fresh rain…
As the April water from the heavens drop gently on my black tin roof, it makes a delightful plinking sound, it reminds me of notes on the piano playing a melody similar to the “ entertainer.”
Its time for rubbers, wellies, and hip waders so it would seem.
There has always been such a delight in me when I see little kids in rubber boots. My boys wore them incessantly when they were younger, and their stinky little bare, dirty feet were constant.
They were easy to put on, practical, and had them playing outside the quickest. It’s for this similar reason that I keep both clogs and rubber boots by my front door.
Somehow you feel ready for anything with your boots on and at the ready.
I was just thinking about the clothes people wear, and that which touches their skin. These items are so precious to hold, once your children have grown up, or passed away. I wear my Dad’s old sweaters, and one of his favorite button down cotton shirts hangs on my bed post .
Repatching, and mending , and reusing clothing has always been a rhythmic and relaxing practice. As I hold these little garments between my fingers, the memories of little bodies, playing out in the sandbox, tromping down the gutters with “popsicle stick” boots, as they floated down the stream, green grass shiny, and slick with fresh rain drops…it envelops my senses.
Older people always seem to remark.. “pay attention… it all goes by fast.”
I am now that person, and am thinking the exact thing, that I ridiculed years ago..
Practical footwear has not always been my “ go to” thing, but as I grow older, I now am seeing the validity of it, especially as my feet now talk back to me, like a belligerent child when they get laid down for a nap.
The child thinks that somehow he or she is missing out on the mud puddles, and street hockey games, and the worst of all things… that they might sleep through when the ice cream truck passes by.
We don’t want to miss things.. Even as adults. The distinct, if not slightly haunting tune that carries from the loud speaker on the ice cream truck reminds us of summer, sticky faces, sweating little people, and sun kissed skin.
Days gone by, when your children were all under one roof, and spaghetti and garlic bread was eaten a lot throughout the week, and macaroni and cheese came in as a close second.
Home made play dough, and dancing about after dinner to music on the CD player, just to burn off extra energy before bed…. it’s the very good stuff.
The memory makers are being made in every little moment so often taken for granted at the time, but then like the wind, they blow through your person, and just leave you with ruffled and blown hair, and a sense that something special has just passed your way.
It is fascinating to read that music, and the area of your brain that remembers it, does not fade even in dementia, and Alzheimer’s disease. I was viewing a video online just this morning, of a man who seems to blossom and almost awaken to his true self when music is played from his early days.
Music seems tied into the very essence of our being, and is interconnected to our souls, in inexplicable ways. This is mesmerizing to behold.
One of my most favorite movies still is “ Awakenings,” with Robert DiNero and Robin Williams. It’s so profound how these patients who are in an altered mind state, and some who are catatonic, revive briefly after a bold doctor dares to observe and try something new.. Hope emerges, and dusts itself off, and allows us to glimpse what could be.. It is exquisitely beautiful and awe inspiring to watch these patients come alive again, if only for a moment.
”Quality of life.. not quantity,” is what my Dad used to say. The importance of being in the right now of the moment.. even if it hurts you, to just emanate the feeling, and stay in it..Trust that you will be held.. no matter what, and the freedom to own that this belongs to you, just for right now…. the precious commodity if time.
Why is it so tempting to want to see what the next day holds, to overplan, and speculate, and often worry about the things that could possibly cross your life path..?
There is freedom on the unexpected, and unplanned.
Freedom to heal, to morph into a different version of yourself, and the choice to leave behind in the wake , like a wave that crashes to the shore, the time that has passed. it’s ok to move forward moment by unprecedented moment . In fact.. this is good.. this is progress.
Somehow Spring is bittersweet to me. There are some loved ones that I’m close to that seem to experience Seasonsal depression, and it always confused me that at this time of freshness, and the beginning of the summer , that sadness and hopelessness would creep in unexpectedly.
I don’t begin to understand, but I empathize with these feelings more and more, as I grow older, and my heart bleeds when I see another bravely taking on each new day.
i’m seeing a chiropractor for a variety of ailments, and last week I was surprised, after he worked on my neck, that I was moved to tears. I drove back to work bawling, and sad. I did not draw any connection, until the next day, when I had a session again, and the same thing occurred.
I questioned the practitioner the following day, and asked if there was any correlation between my sudden onset of tears, and treatment?
He responded that it’s not usual, but has been observed that when work is done on the neck, this response has been observed.
Tears… grief, from the pulling on ones’ neck, the turning and manipulating of one’s spine.. who knew?.. not me.. that’s who.
Do we store up this grief in our earthly bodies, that if left unresolved, and unallowed to flow as free as ice melting off a freshly thawed stream, causes physical pain, in conjunction with stored up mental pain?
I find this fascinating, how our body and mind works together, and separately to get us to pay attention to the thing we most want to hide, and not feel.
The unspoken words… the holding of grudges, and withholding of forgiveness can rot the body and mind.. and to what end… You end up more twisted than a pretzel, and not near as tasty.
The “ old must pass away,” and it is good that it should.
Like a would that has been drawn together with sutures, and kept dry and clean, there will be scars left behind the cut in the flesh, in the heart and mind, but there will be healing… if it is allowed…
I really marvel that where the skin has been cut and torn, and after the scar forms to protect itself, it is stronger, and more resilient than before.
These little rubber boots that once tromped through the mud puddles, and were filled up to overflowing with water, and grunge, still stand up, and are sturdy, and hold up stored adventures that was had with each child.
I am awakened to the glory of the moment, and so I turn on my favorite cd again, and listen and sing ….and so begins a new day .