It sneaks up on me, this nearly overwhelming sense of nostalgia. With the quiet strength of a ninja, it executes a couple of back flips, then a well-placed high leg kick and I am flat on my back, lost in stories and memories from years, decades, ago.
I should know now when to expect this stealthy little devil. Always when I am contemplating my stuff. The jigsaw puzzles, Matchbox cars, and picture books. The ceramic canisters from Gramma (dad's mom) and china tea cups from Nani (mom's mom). There is too much stuff in my house. But everything has it's place and your house is so tidy, a kind friend pointed out. Still, I don't want it all.
The pandemic years have prompted many of us to reconsider our homes and what we fill them with. By mid-summer 2020, charity thrift stores were balking at taking yet more stuff. They were filled to the warehouse rafters with other people's shit. Just last week, the neighborhood library posted a sign on the door - We are no longer taking book donations.
I don't want it all, yet the nostalgia keeps me tethered to this stuff. Am I disrespecting Gramma if I pass the canisters on? Do all these books really make me happy?
Yes, some of them do, for certain. On a recent vacation to Olympic National Park, in a rainforest along the Sol Duc River, a patch of ferns as high as my knees brought instantly to mind the notion that a little critter ought to be under one of the leafy fronds, using it as shelter. I was picturing a bunny named Nicholas. From one of my cherished kid books.And Christopher the bear has a new friend to love him for years to come.
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