Time Capsule -a memoir of sorts

Today I opened a time capsule…a vessel containing no relics, simply extraneous pieces of this and that from times past. Those things left behind were not planned or planted, just forgotten for a time. Now, the contents awaken memories briefly or stir faint curiosity, as I sort through them all and prepare to lay this time capsule to rest, to say farewell to my old van called “Lurch.”
Lurch has character; that’s why it has a name. However, Lurch was forced into retirement a year ago (the result of many years of service and many maladies, topped off by an unfortunate incident with a deer), and has been camping out in my driveway awaiting removal to some Grey Haven of automobiles. Thus it came about that I finally confronted the odious task of clearing everything out of Lurch, so that it could be properly disposed of (though “buried” almost seems a more fitting term).
Lurch and I have been through a lot together, more than I have time to recount here. However, it seems fitting to mention a few of the qualities and memories associated with Lurch, as a parting tribute.
I started calling the car Lurch when I was irritated with the way it shuddered when I put it in gear, and puffed haltingly and indecisively up hills (“I think I can, I think I can…aw heck, maybe not…”). Eventually it became a term of endearment, and derisive fondness.
As per tradition of the family curse, the passenger side window could not be rolled down, and all of the other doors had something wrong with them too. The side door stuck, and had to be pulled at the top; the back doors wouldn’t open with a key (and now not at all), and the driver’s side door met up with a concrete post in a parking garage, leaving it concave enough for a draft to sneak in around the edges.
The air conditioner can’t be used when idling, and the heater takes 15 minutes to warm up (about the time it takes to get anywhere). The tape deck broke, but the radio works –thank goodness.
“Accelerate” is a foreign concept to Lurch, but “gradually less slowly” is more familiar; “brake” is something that happens once the pedal is depressed almost to the floor, and “steering” is somewhat akin to guiding a meandering bowling ball or lazy goldfish.
Lurch’s face has the most scars: the passenger side headlight is smashed, the blinker hangs by a few wires, and the wheel well is bent. The front grill is missing teeth, and hangs forward in a lopsided fashion overlooking the dented bumper. All that was rather recent, really; before those two unnamed events Lurch was quite good looking.
The back windows display stickers for Dutch Bros. Coffee, MENC collegiate, and all four years worth of campus parking permit stickers. There’s also a rear license plate holder given to me by one of my sisters, which reads “If I go any faster, I’ll burn out my hamsters!”
I have been locked out, had to jump-start, tow, and put the fear of the mechanic into Lurch, and although rather unreliable, Lurch still got me to the important places where I needed to go (most of the time): school, home, late night organ practices, classroom observations, student teaching, trips to the store, new home, new work, visits to friends…
Yes, Lurch smells the same, feels the same, and still feels like mine. But now I bid farewell to Lurch, gratefully acknowledging its years of service on my behalf. Ah, it’s a gutless wonder, but it has heart…or so it seems. It has held pieces of my life, and that is enough to move me to sentimentality such as this!


Inside the time capsule that is Lurch, I found these items, to name a few:

¬ the rain poncho from my college graduation, that I used to keep my cap and gown less wet than they would have been without it
¬ blue sunglasses, now broken, that I got on a trip to Victoria, Canada with my best friend and her family
¬ two pairs of driving gloves, including the black pair that left dark smudges on my face the night of my senior recital
¬ a bag of mail from the summer after graduation
¬ old church bulletins and sermon notes from one of the churches I attended in Seattle
¬ two half-used bottles of hand lotion
¬ no less than three containers of oil (+ a filter), which I would never have changed myself
¬ several Dutch Bros. Coffee window stickers
¬ an old purse (no money, unfortunately)
¬ a bag of hair accessories that I stashed in an odd corner and forgot about, during one of my moves out of a dorm room
¬ jack and tire iron (since the old set broke, and Dad replaced a tire at least one time that I can think of, when he visited me at school)
¬ jumper-cables, which saved my bacon on MANY occasions
¬ remnants of a survival kit, containing wool blanket and MRE food packets (in case the car broke down somewhere desolate… a definite possibility)
¬ ancient owner’s manual and paperwork belonging to my grandparents, plus all maintenance records from when Lurch belonged to them. Also my own insurance slips.
¬ Pieces of the front grill that got bashed out by the deer
¬ Mutilated front license plate… I’d rather not go into detail about that episode, let’s just say I was mad at Lurch for a long time over it
¬ small American flag that I hung from my front visor after 9/11
¬ two cassette tapes I recorded with my (then) favorite songs and played in the tape deck until it broke

Rescue and Rebirth - Journeys of a Purple Plant

Today it has been beautiful outside, the way summer should be, so I spent a good deal of time enjoying it by puttering around doing some outside chores. One of those was to repot my two purple plants (whose proper name I have not yet discovered), and to plant another one that had grown roots from a cutting.
This plant is amazing, and it is almost like a pet to me. I say this plant, because it did originally start as a singular entity.
Once upon a time, long, long ago –I think it was about 2002- I noticed a very attractive “volunteer” plant that had sprung up in the pot of my mom’s Gingko tree. I wasn’t sure if it was a weed or something that had snuck into the soil when the tree was elsewhere, but I decided to rescue it and transplant it to its own pot and save it from eventually being weeded. It was a spiky, fuzzy-leaved plant, that turned a deep purple when it got enough sunshine, and eventually it grew longer into stalks that would reach toward the sun as if to embrace it. When a stalk was mature, it would grow a tip that would flower with delicate pink petals; the flowers would each last only a day, but soon another would bloom from the tip, sometimes even two at once.
The Purple Plant went with me to college (sophomore year, I think) and adorned my windowsill, unhappily turning pale green in the winter but reviving again in the spring. It lived with me through two years of dorm rooms, a summer in a duplex, and a year in a very dark and very old apartment. After graduation, it went with me for the summer to my sister’s house, where it almost met an untimely end. Fortunately, it proved hard to kill, and a sunny spot in my classroom (once I got a job and moved) helped it to recover. It has now passed two years with me in that post as well.
Last year, it was flourishing by summertime and needed a bigger pot. As the stalks got longer, they were prone to break off more easily; it was by saving those broken stalks and sticking them in water-bottles that I discovered how easily this plant could be grown from starts/cuttings. Thus, when I repotted it, the Purple Plant also had a younger clone of itself in a smaller pot.
This brings us to today, when I planned to repot the two and plant a third. The leaves had been turning pale and limp at an alarming rate, and I was hoping a change of soil and perhaps change of location would revive it. But alas! When I removed the plants from the pots, I discovered that some nasty bug had infested the soil, leaving behind caches of eggs amongst the roots. After analyzing the situation, it seemed to me that the best way to rescue my dear Purple Plant, was to amputate. Into two vases and a pitcher went selected cuttings, as I clipped the most promising stalks and removed dead leaves, hoping to give these pieces of the original a second chance at life. I potted Purple Plant the Third, now that its vase was full of its ancestors/cousins from Purple Plant I and Purple Plant II, preparing to grow new roots. Soon, I won’t be able to tell anymore which came from which; the roots will intertwine within each vase, each stalk becoming part of a larger family once again, and I will plant them into whatever pot they fit best. It will be my dear Purple Plant again, all four or six or eight of it! More to love…

It got me to thinking, while clipping new starts and throwing away the diseased roots, I did this all on good faith that the starts will take root and I will have saved the plant essentially by killing it. This is what it must be like for people with cancer, or who need an organ transplant: they kill off part of their body in hopes that the new bone marrow, or kidney, or whatever it is, will take hold in time to save them from completely dying away.
Sacrifice…Rescue…Rebirth…New Life.
I can’t help but draw a parallel to the Christian life. We humans are like this Purple Plant: beautiful, but slowly dying as we are eaten away inside by a multitude of infestations. A new body won’t save us, nor will a new place to live, a new job…if we are re-potted, we’ll still carry the disease with us. “Save us!” we must cry to the Gardener, who comes with the pruning shears. It may hurt, being cut away from our roots, our human nature, our eternal disease. But ah! Here we are in fresh water, free from those old infected roots, free to put out new ones and have a second chance at life. Sure, we’re still part of the same plant, and will be prone to get infected again, but we’ve been reborn! Someone else was sacrificed, thrown into the rubbish heap like old infected roots, so that we could have a second chance at life; a new kind of life, one that will last like a Purple Plant flowering forever under the tender care of a Master Gardener.

“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has passed away, behold, the new has come…” -2 Corinthians 5:17

“Then as one man’s trespass led to condemnation for all men, so one man’s act of righteousness leads to acquittal and life for all men. For as by one man’s disobedience many were made sinners, so by one man’s obedience many will be made righteous.” –Romans 5:18-19

Heritage

I spent a hot but enjoyable day at the Highland Games yesterday, mingling with crowds of people in traditional Scottish garb and watching various events: sheepdog trials, athletic contests, Highland dancing, and of course the pipe band contests. After getting a good dose of bagpipes, I perused the stalls of vendors and visited some clan booths, to try to track down the origins of the one Scottish name in my family history that I was familiar with. While doing so, it struck me again that I know so little about my own heritage, and that my family tree is so diverse that at times I feel disconnected from any specific ethnic roots. At events like these, I see people who are strangers but are nevertheless bonded together by a strong sense of identity in their cultural heritage, and I envy them for that. I have found things to admire in many cultures’ arts and histories, even if they are not a part of my ancestry, and I believe that helps me to be a more open person and less likely to be prejudiced. But still, anyone who has been on the outside might agree with me that one wishes to belong, to have a group to identify with. It helps to be reminded by events like this, that even if it is only little pieces here and there that can be identified as Irish, or Scotch, or German, or Dutch, or whatever, I can take pride in that little bit and be spurred on to find out more about it.
Do you know what irritates me? On surveys and questionnaires and the like, where I have to select my ethnic background, the categories are so general. Asian. African-American. Pacific Islander. Latino. Arab. White. That gets me. Just because I’m white-skinned doesn’t mean I have more in common with a white person from Norway or the Ukraine than I do with an African-American person with black skin. Often there are more specific categories for “Latino” as well: Mexican, Cuban, Puerto Rican, South American, etc. This is all fine and good, but then why can’t we white people select the strands of our ancestry? It probably has something to do with the fact that the emigration of my ancestors occurred at least two or three generations ago, but it would still be nice not to have to settle for “white.” Yes, I’m an All-American Mutt, but for me “white” includes Irish-Scotch-English-Swedish-German-Dutch (did I miss any?), whereas for a friend of mine it might include Polish-French-English-?-?
It looks like “diversity” is actually starting to become a blending of many races and cultures, less distinction, more dilute, unified more by nationality and ideals. In many ways, this is “progress,” progress away from racism and prejudice, but it makes me wonder about the world in three generations from now (especially here in America, where cultural traditions are not as strong, and holidays are more commercial than celebration of historical events). Will people know about their roots? Will they still celebrate with traditional dress, food, music, dancing, and art? Will they know what they are a part of, and be willing to remind the rest of us, so we can enjoy those rich traditions too?
I called up my mom, with bagpipes sounding in the background, and asked about our Scotch-Irish branch of the family. What she could tell me sounded complicated, so she said she would bring some notes on our family tree with her, when she comes to visit soon. Thank goodness. In the meantime, I am enjoying some things I bought, featuring Celtic knots. I have always loved the beautiful puzzle of them, and the ancient feel of that art. So even if I am not full-blooded or even half Irish or Scottish, I am glad of that little I do have to identify with; I now know what the tartan and family crest of the MacArthur clan is, and by golly at least I’ll have something good to wear for St. Patrick’s Day!

A bunch of cool numbers

What happens only once a year, for 12 years, and then not again for 88 years? A triplet digit day! A day like today: 07-07-07. Possibly the last triplet digit day in my lifetime will be 12-12-2012 (Mom's birthday!), unless I live to be 118 years old and see the next one, 01-01-2101. You know what will be a really cool date? December twenty-first, 2112 (or 12-21-2112). The first four digits are a mirror image, and the second four are a reverse mirror image! If I were a mathematician, I could have a heyday with this, but I won't. Instead, I wish you a happy seventh day of the seventh month, of 2007!

Gullet Adventures

My car and I, we found ourselves being swallowed.
The creature’s gullet was a tumult of strange appendages whipping about, and our passage was punctuated by bursts of liquid that noisily covered us. As a particularly long set of intestinal tentacles slapped against the windshield and dragged across the roof, I felt claustrophobia tugging at the edges of my control. Fortunately, the gurgling and slapping about was soon over, and we were then pulled through a rather windy stretch. Possibly gaseous fumes…
Finally, the ordeal was over and we were deposited back out in the sunshine.
“I know you enjoy this and look much better for it,” I said to my car, who glistened happily as it proudly sped me towards home, “but I still get a funny feeling every time we get digested by the ‘Soft-n-Foamy’ carwash.”
“Well, that’s what you get for not cleaning me yourself.” it reminded me. “Besides, I kindof like those tentacle-things…it’s like getting a massage.”
“You’re weird. But you do look nice.”
“Thanks. But I’m not the weird one here…”

The Panther

The thick brush parted noiselessly for the velvet paws, rain from the leaves dampened the thick fur, and the fading light reflected in the golden eyes of the lithe shadow. The sun had made a brilliant sunset as it slipped below the edge of the clouds, tinting the undersides of their rain-heavy grayness with pink, purple, and gold. In the dimming light, the Prey had come out, sniffing the freshness of the air.
The grass stirred, and an inquisitive face peered through to look at the Hunter, its whiskered face displaying a mixture of the curiosity and bewilderment belonging to youth and inexperience.
“What are you doing back in here?” asked the newcomer.
“I am a panther. I’m hunting, of course.” answered the veteran.
“Can I be a panther too?”
“Look here, young Whipper-Snapper, you’re making so much noise, you’ll blow my cover. Besides, you’re white and gray; the Prey would see you a mile off. Why don’t you go play somewhere else.”
The young one sulked for a moment, watching the Panther assume a crouching position, eyes glued on the approaching prey.
“Can I watch, then? I want to see what this hunting stuff is all about.”
“I suppose.” said the Panther magnanimously.
The young one rustled back out of the hiding spot and sauntered a short distance away, and plunked down to clean his tail.
The Prey approached, plucked some raspberries from the bushes near the Panther’s hiding spot, and eyed the youngster. “You tagging along and pestering your big brother again, you big kitten?” queried the tall, two-legged creature, bending to pat him and tweak the twitching tail. “I suspect he’s around here somewhere.”
“Busted.” thought the Panther. “I knew he’d give me away. Time to break cover.”
As the Prey turned and walked back toward its dwelling, the Panther dashed through the bushes, rustling wet leaves, then out into the open. He quickly closed the distance between the Prey and himself, his goal within sight. The door opened, began to close, but the Panther dashed through at the last moment, and slithered around the Prey’s legs. Victory! He peeked out from under the coffee table, and, plying all his charm, purred as he wound himself around the two-legger’s feet. The human sighed and picked him up, a most undignified but pleasing thing, and scratched him behind the ears.
“Silly cat,” said the human. “Off with you!” She tossed him unceremoniously out the door and back into the damp night.
“Curses, foiled again.” thought the Panther, stalking down the driveway. “Perhaps I’ll find some moths to sport with; chewing on them may relieve me of some disappointment.”
The big kitten, twitching as though his shadow were goading and tickling him, bounded up alongside the Panther. “What happened in there? I didn’t dare follow.”
“Torture, unspeakable torture;” answered the Panther solemnly; “you’ve much to learn before you have courage enough for the Hunt.”

Giving Back

A few days ago I finished reading “The Freedom Writer’s Diary,” a compilation of diary entries by a group of teens who, with the direction of an inspiring young English teacher, found a way to respond to the violence, prejudice, drugs, and broken families that threatened to deprive them of a future. They found people in literature who shared similar circumstances, such as Anne Frank, Zlata, the Freedom Riders, and others.
It reminded me that I have led a charmed life compared to such, and despite the challenges and sorrows I have faced, there is much I take for granted. I don’t have to worry about being shot when I walk out my door; there isn’t graffiti anywhere on my street; gangs don’t hang out at bus stops waiting to pound someone; I don’t have an abusive father or boyfriend; I’m not dependent on drugs to get me through the day. Here, kids can ride their bikes down the street, neighbors wave hello, people have yards to plant flowers in, and the sound of ambulance sirens wailing in the night is fairly rare (and usually doesn’t mean someone has been shot).
Not too long ago, I felt that since I had opportunities and experiences in life that a lot of kids don’t have, I should give back to society in some way, and give others the chance for Opportunity. By teaching (even if it wasn’t by teaching “essentials” such as reading, math, or science), I felt like I was giving back in some small way, giving kids the opportunity to find something comforting, a voice through music. Some of the kids have found their “voice” in it, something special that is their own, that they enjoy or are good at, and many will find their voice in something else. I still feel this way, but have come to a better understanding lately that teaching is not my strongest gift. I do well enough, and have become a stronger person because of it, but teaching is not what I do best nor is it an end goal. I have wanted to go to graduate school ever since I discovered my truest gift, the thing I do best and most enjoy doing.
Is it selfish of me to want this still, would I be stealing from humanity by leaving my current position and my students to a potentially disappointing change? Or is it worse to live with the heartache of unfinished business, a dream yet unfulfilled, a gift silently waiting to be set free? Have I been caging the butterflies, hiding the sunlight behind a dark curtain, and stealing off to a secret garden, all until the time drawing near when it is right to release, unveil, and unlock?
All pretty metaphors aside, I have been troubled by these thoughts until recently. I have written about wishing for things past and remembering my truest self, and wondering where such longings lead me. I have had an epiphany of sorts since then: if I live in the past, then I stagnate in the present and bring bitterness to the future. However, of those things in the past that I love the most, I should take action to ensure that they are also a part of my future or else they will be lost, given up. This is the paradox then, that in order to not lose what I hold dear, I must let it go. Let it go so that God can give it back in a new way, if He chooses.
Today in Sunday School, a guest teacher was introducing what will be a series on the Spiritual Gifts. He talked about how a person shouldn’t try to serve/minister equally well in all areas, because someone else has a strength in an area that you are weak, and vice versa. Afterward, when I had gotten to thinking about what my strongest gifts may be, I think God may have spoken to me in one of those ways that we commonly think of as sudden insight, or “it dawned on me.”
I may be serving others in a role where some of my weaknesses are strengthened, and my strengths made more mature; however, these and all my past experiences are tools to help me be more effective, more complete, and more ready for my truest calling, a calling where I can use my gifts/strengths to give back to humanity even better than I am now. There is a teacher out there who will take my place because that is his or her gift, and I do not need to grieve leaving behind something good for something of an even greater good. Perhaps these experiences are making me better able to discern what that true calling is, although I am still only seeing pieces of the puzzle at a time.
Like the teacher who helped her students become the Freedom Writers, I too want to help people find unexpected beauty, hope, voices from history speaking wisdom, the value of each person. I just won’t be going about it in the same way. I love the writing of Anne Frank, the music of Beethoven, the disciplined art of movement in gymnastics; perhaps my legacy will be discovered somewhere between them all.
I guess this blog may be my own diary of life as it unfolds, a daily discovering of puzzle pieces as they are fitted together.