I must confess to really liking this “cocooning” we are doing this winter. You snuggle down with Sherpa blankets, a couple of cats, and the remote. We have never done this before, it is extraordinary, who knew the wonders of couch sitting.
We finally got around to watching the gift set of Indiana Jones movies that Doug had gotten in 2003 or 2004, safe to say it has been sitting on the bookshelf for at least 8 years. The draw for the gift set was all the bonus material, such a treat for production nerds. Doug and I actually met backstage, so we are partial to how stuff gets done.
…or we find the courage to grab the pen and take back our story.
We had never seen the second installment of the Indiana Jones series, “The Temple of Doom.” Put off by bad reviews, we had not invested the time to view it until now. We watched the “behind the scenes” interviews first and then watched the movie, then watched all the “behind the scenes” footage again. Both George Lucas and Steven Spielberg spoke of how dark the movie had gotten, much darker than either of them intended, and I was surprised that they had turned the writing over to such unusual people. I watched as Steven Spielberg shared of his discomfort with the story, and I could feel his detachment, his separation from the story. I was shouting at him in my head to not give up so easy, to not let someone else write his story. That disengagement showed in the movie, no character development, no clever script, just a series of action sequences strung together. Nothing memorable. He had sold out his story.
I thought to myself how true this is of life, we allow someone else to write our story. We don’t like the story they are writing, it isn’t us at all, but we remain silent, and let them keep writing. We either become the character we have been written, finding our self detaching more and more, or we find the courage to grab the pen and take back our story.
We have great storytellers in our family, we would sit for hours around the table and listen to our stories, the stories of where we came from, who we were, stories of living in ethnic ghettos to being patent holders, and engineers. Real people with magnificent stories of remarkable courage and perseverance. Now we squander our precious time on stories of the Kardashians, it is nauseating.
My mother would remind me to sit down and listen when the boys were little. They both could spin fantastical tales. She counseled that if I did not listen when they were little, they would not share their stories when they got older. I miss Justin’s stories. Justin was a listener, and because he truly listened he could bring such color and detail to his stories, stories of real people. I miss how he could tell the tale of the cat who came to tea at his little grad student apartment, about the generosity of the international students with their cooking skills, a lunch with a deeply respected professor and their spouse, they all came to life on the phone, such joy and wonderment in his voice. He told a story of tracking down an out-of-print book for his thesis and actually speaking to either one of the authors or keepers of the rare book and how the gentleman sent him the book gratis, just glad it was going to a good home. Justin met the kindest people and in his sharing of the story, we were reminded of the goodness in the world.
I grieve the loss of those connections. I can never say “tell me again how you found that book.” I won’t hear about the amazing car mechanic who looked after his car, or how he found a great bakery, his stories opened up an entire world for us. I am so frustrated that I can’t recall all the details, I can’t remember the title of the book he was given. I sit with all his books and wonder which one? I remember him assigning a project to his students and how he enjoyed viewing each of their Power Point presentations. They could chose any topic they wanted, it was all about learning the application of the program. He said he learned so much about each of them as he viewed their final project, he valued each person.
Justin had a great story, we never knew what the next page would bring, might be a phone call that he had resigned his well-paying job and was going to grad school…in South Dakota! His life was the greatest adventure and he was so generous to take us with him. I think what I learned is that in each of us is the best story ever and to not sell out, don’t exchange the vibrancy of real life for a story that is not worthy of our time. If I am going to spend time with characters, then their story better be as good as mine, or yours, or your child’s.
To those people who snobbishly say that we should not live vicariously though our children, or that adult children should not call everyday, I say “bite me.” W e are not living through our children, we share adventures, we rejoice in their life experiences, we grow. To have a child call to say hello is a great privilege, to have them share their day is a treasure, a gift.
The longing for stories of your child never eases…
I mourn the times I was not a good listener, I mourn the times that I didn’t call Justin because I was so afraid of intruding on his life, he probably thought we were too busy or didn’t care. I wish I had taken notes now, and written down the life he shared, I have only fragments now. There is such pain in letting go the stories you hoped you would hear, perhaps stories of he and Ryan getting to explore Ireland together, stories of their children being best friends. The longing for stories of your child never eases, it becomes blended with your life, but the ache for their story continues unabated.
Life is too fleeting to relinquish the pen and live any other story except our own. Be it good, bad, seemingly pointless, the courage must be found to grasp our own pen and live.
