Each stuffed animal had its place. A particular spot.
Teddy Bear at 11:00, Raggedy Ann at 10:45, Rabbit at 10:30 . . .
With about 20 stuffed animals, I had a cozy spot
Right in the middle with my Bozo beside me.
Each book had its place. A particular spot.
My love for my elementary school library and librarian, Mrs. Jones,
Had inspired my own bookshelves.
Dewey Decimal and alphabetical order determined where each book was placed.
(If you don’t believe me, ask my poor sister).
Each plastic figure had a name. Had a home. Had a grade or job assigned.
The Fisher-Price Little People executives had no idea a young child
Didn’t just play but organized
And created a little life with all her buildings and cars and people.
(I still have my index card “census” by building).
This little girl
Organized wherever she went,
Imitating two very organized parents,
Organizing dolls, books, and toys,
Organizing puppet scripts at church,
Organizing her 4th grade teacher’s papers and grades (Yes, this 9-year-old did Mrs. Phyle’s gradebook),
And then filing and organizing the music at the high school band library.
She grew older.
But still was
Organizing,
And trying to order life,
To make sense of it,
To convince herself that she could do math—
That this action plus that action would equal a specific result.
That if she was good and worked hard,
That if she contributed her very best to a relationship,
That if she loved others with all her heart,
That if she loved her children to the best of her abilities,
That if she put her best effort into a job,
That if she followed through with her promises,
That if she tried to be honest, to live with integrity,
That if she did all that,
The results would be simple math.
Happiness.
A loving family who always was there.
Loving children who wanted to be nearby.
A job where her efforts were rewarded.
A life full of love and joy and
A life full of people who also loved her with all their hearts and followed through with their promises,
Relationships marked by integrity and honesty and love.
If Teddy Bear was at 11,
and if books about the stars (at 523.8) came before biographies (at 920),
and if the red-headed Little People girl with pigtails named Gina Smith lived in the Main Street Village 2nd floor above the barber shop and worked at the Lift and Load Depot in Fisher Price Land,
Then, surely,
A life lived with good intentions
Would be matched with good intentions.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The divorce revealed the flaw in the math.
This little girl, grown adult, had no control over what others said about her,
What they thought of a supposedly godly woman whose husband filed,
Whether she worked too hard, loved her husband enough, and did enough for him,
That a minister wasn’t worthy if her family was falling apart,
What they claimed she said and did and didn’t do.
This little girl, grown mother, had no control over what her boys did or saw or experienced
Half of every month,
Half of every year.
She couldn’t control what was said to them,
Or what they chose to believe.
This little girl, grown mother, had to learn to hug when she could,
Speak when she could,
and love ALL the time,
With no idea of the math equation results.
Endless hours spent over homework or in school meetings, or at school events,
Endless hours spent with an aching heart,
Endless hours of work schedules adjusted to just be present,
Endless hours of Spongebob, iCarly, and Aing the Avatar,
Months and years of carrying around Nemo the stuffed animal,
All—
With no idea how it would end,
With fear of the threats it would all end at age 16 when this little girl, grown mother, would never see them again.
* * * * * * * * * * *
The TRUTH IS . . .
This English major, who also loved science and math,
Cannot skew this real-life math equation enough to make the X+Y=Z,
Cannot organize life enough to have it make sense.
There are no guarantees.
My actions do not always guarantee a reaction.
I cannot act, trusting that an equal reaction will happen.
Just because I work my hardest at work does not mean that my bosses will have my back.
Just because I love my sons with all my heart does not mean that this love will be reciprocated.
Just because I live with integrity does not mean others will treat me with integrity.
Just because I try to love others with my whole self does not mean they will love me back the same way.
If I am acting in a certain way, trusting in a certain result, I will be disappointed.
I cannot force others to line up on a shelf in a Dewey Decimal system.
I cannot line up the people in my life to surround me at exactly at the 10:30 or 11:00 moment.
I cannot detoxify the people who poison my life.
My expectations will not be met if I try to organize others the way I hope they will act—-
Even if it’s wrong,
Even if it’s unfair,
Even if it seems unjust,
Even if the selfish, the toxic, the self-serving, the lazy, the abusive appear to get ahead.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
My REALIZATION is . . . .
I can only control myself.
My movements.
My words.
My actions.
My heart.
I can only control how their actions affect me.
I can only decide if I will give up being me—with all my alphabetical-loving cells?
If I will give up living the life of integrity and love on my side of the equation.
Perhaps, all I have learned since the young age of 4 or 5,
All this life has taught me is that
Teddy Bear can still be at 11:00.
And Raggedy Ann can still be at 10:30,
But I may have made a bit of room for a new stuffed animal at 10:20—
Or for a few stuffies to be moved to my feet.
And a few of my books may be sitting on my lap instead of on shelves in perfect Dewey Decimal Order.
A few of my books may be loaned out to friends,
And a few may even have been misplaced or put on the wrong shelves.
I will live.
And perhaps I will find a bit of joy in the fact that my star books are by the window and by my telescope rather than at 523.8.
Perhaps letting go of the order,
Of the expectations,
Allow me to enjoy the wonder of it all—
The mystery of it all–
With no guarantees,
With no future determined,
With no way to know how the equation will work out.
But here I am,
Looking out of the window,
With the telescope in hand,
Holding my breath, watching expectantly.
No comments:
Post a Comment