Mom's box of memories

In my office there is a box under a chair in the corner:

In that box are old photos, cards, newspaper clippings, and assorted stuff.  There are childhood pictures of my grandmother, father, me and my sons...a generational catalog of kids, parents, and relatives. It is an odd accumulation of things taken from my childhood home and my adult home.  Right now it lives under my chair, waiting for a new home. It doesn't carry all my life, not even close. But everything in there is important to me, whether it is a picture of flowers in my grandmother's garden or a scrawled thank you note from my sons to my mother, their grandmother.

Yesterday I needed to go to my storage unit to get some camping gear. Since I have not packed the unit very well, I had to dig through things a bit to find everything I wanted.  Along the way I ran across a small plastic box, about the size of a shoebox, containing cards and letters I had sent to my mother as a child.  There were Mother's Day cards, a Christmas card, a few other notes from school and camp.  Even a plaster of paris impression of my 3 year old hand.

The most recent items are some letters from my first trip to sleep-away camp, written almost exactly 47 years ago.

I knew the box was there, I've looked through it before, but finding it again yesterday was a sweet moment. What struck me this time was one card with a few odd line "drawings."  An early attempt at either people or flowers.  There were no personal identifying marks, but on the back my mother, in her perfect script, had written, "Chris." Clearly she had noted this at the time, 50 some odd years ago,  had thought to remember who had made this gift for her. 

I have no idea what the occasion was, where or why I made the card. Its construction was before my memory.  But, seeing my name attached to it made it clear that my mother remembered it. Why did she keep this one card?  Was it the first one I made?

I know I can't remember making most of those cards, but I do remember that girl, Chris.  I remember what it was like to be her.  She was okay. Confident in her abilities, firm in her resolve, and loved by those in her life.

Be gentle

I was with some little kids the other day as they petted a kitten.  Over and over I heard the mothers admonish, "Be gentle," as the kids tentatively reached out to touch the ball of fur.

"Be gentle." As a parent I remember saying those words to an older brother anxious to hug his younger sibling, maybe a little too tightly. 

To a young boy picking up a toad for the first time to feel its skin.  To a kid elbowing her way into the line to go down the slide.  To a little helper at the sink washing berries.

"Be gentle."  A command always directed at behavior towards others. Be gentle to those you touch, you help, you care about.

It seems we often forget to tell them that there is a time to be gentle to yourself as well.  A time to allow oneself some leeway, some comfort, some acceptance. A time to extend some gentle touches inward.

Identity crisis

I have no sense of style. I admit it.

My difficulties in the make-up, clothing, and hair departments have already been documented.  But this lack of skill extends to interior design as well. I walked into Pier 1 yesterday and was nearly as panicked as I was in Sephora.  There are a million things, sparkly, colorful, bold, simple.  The choices were overwhelming and I had no sense of what I wanted.  What goes good together?  What matches?  What will "pop"? I want my home to look nicer, but I have no idea how to accomplish that.  At a very basic level, I have no idea what I want it to look like

I know people who collect things; owls, cows, windmills, salt shakers.  I don't.
I know people who can walk into a room and change two things and make the whole place more inviting. I can't.

I like my things to have some meaning.  Things that were gifts or associated with a happy memory. Not just stuff I bought at a store.  On the other hand, I'd like my home to look coordinated--matching towels, sets of dishes. I don't think I'm terribly materialistic, but I want things to be nice.  Some people seem able to accomplish that, have a home that looks beautiful and put together, without looking like an interior design studio.  I wish I could do that.

I don't want to live in an interior design magazine. I want to live in a home. But a home that feels good, feels like me.  But, who am I?

I am not modern:

         

I am not country:

           

I am definitely not Victorian:

 

I do not like balls in dishes....



I don't like velvet paintings...



I like sunflowers....



 

But not this many....