I feel like I have to ask for permission. Like I am a small child standing in a large, mostly empty living room and who knows the space was made for twirling around in circles into dizziness. But, this is a living room where many fine things have been collected - crystal bowls, an antique chest from 1882, a vase of blooming orchids, an elegant leather couch - and while my child’s mind is pretty darn sure I can twirl around without breaking anything, there is the adult voice that tells me to be cautious, serious. The same voice I heard so many times in my youth when going into store with nicer merchandise. “This is a hands-off store.” And I’d nod a knowing and cooperative nod, fully aware that my chubby child fingers might wreak havoc simply by touching something.
But sometimes in my youth, havoc could be avoided simply by asking permission. The adult always knew - or knew calculably better than I did - when the odds of breakage or mishap were low. Granting permission, I perceived, was a matter of careful consideration. In the living room with the fine objects, or in the store with the expensive merchandise, countless other material circumstances hovered about, and the adult mind took them all in where my immature peripheral sense could not. The couch and the antique chest were too close together, or my outstretched, spinning hands might catch on the blooming orchids, the crystal bowl; or, there was a display in the store that looked precarious and topple-able, the fragile thing I wanted to touch was slippery and silvery and might fall from my grasp. The adult, it seemed, could veritably see into the future. “Why don’t you go outside and spin?” or “I’ll hold it for you so you can touch it.”
Being careful, I learned, was ethical. One must learn to respect the fragility of valuable things.
I will not tell you how much I’ve spent on education in my lifetime. It’s an absurd amount, and incongruous with the value of what I purchased. But, suffice it to say that my education is a crystal bowl, a vase of blooming orchids, a slippery, silvery thing that’s meant to sit on a shelf and be admired; not fingerprinted, and certainly not dropped. Mine is an education in writing, and an education in the literary. Mine is an education in ideas. Lofty ideas. Important ideas. I’ve been trained to write stories about ideas, and I’ve been trained to disregard frippery.
With that slippery, silvery object has come the certificate of authenticity. You put such objects on a shelf in plain view. You do not closet them, or worse, place them in the bathroom.
The message of my education has been: “Don’t twirl. You might break something.”
So. What do I do… when I have no ideas… but twirling ones?
It doesn’t seem so easy as the easiest response: “Well, for God’s sake, twirl!” Because I’m standing here, looking at that slippery, silvery object and really, really worried it could crash to the ground. And everyone who knows me for that fancy thing, everyone who respects me for that fancy thing, will be mortified if I break it.
Twirl… carefully? Calculatedly? Go outside and twirl?
I feel like I have to ask permission.
Sean, here’s my question. What happens if you do break it? Does it somehow devalue all that it stands for? If the ‘fancy thing’ somehow breaks or shatters - what happens? Is it not merely a representation of something else? I say twirl, break everything.. Let it shatter. The things that really matter will survive the whirlwind.
The most fragile, silvery things I ever held were my newborn children. Gently, in small stages, I learned to touch, tickle, caress them; then perch them on shoulders or swoop them through the air. Both touching and swooping added to their lives and mine.
Start with the breeze, work up to the whirlwind. But don’t sit frozen in static air.
Sean, as you know, I have an enormous collection of American Fostoria that belonged to your grandma. It sits up high on a shelf in the living room. I think, “I need to save it for my grandchildren.” But will they appreciate it? Will they cherish it? I have often wondered if I should just get it down and use it. Your grandma used it. After all, that’s what it’s for.
I have also spent much of my life being aware and careful of my surroundings, always afraid I might disturb something “precious.” Not realizing that there was nothing more precious there than myself.
By all means, twirl! Afterwards you can come over for a meal served on your grandma’s Fostoria.
I love you, kiddo!