a childhood place
The kids and I are visiting my parents, who still live in the home I was brought to when I was two and a half. In spite of the fact that the Yun children have advised my mom and dad to sell the home and buy a smaller, more manageable place, there has been comfort in staying here during our transition. The room I shared with my sister as a five year old, with red strawberries dotting the border and a bright green carpet, has since then been converted into a B&B style guest room. A neutral beige paint now covers over the strawberries and a pickled glaze hardwood floor has long since trumped the grass green carpet. Yet I can still imagine the room as it was, with our white painted wrought iron beds and matching quilted bedspreads handmade by mom.
The room is also a "catch-all" for my younger brother's relics: a sculpture in the style of Rodin's thinker, a half-burnt candle, LPs from an earlier age. Each item holds between it's tangible lines something very intangible and hard to define. It's like a broken time line, a dot-to-dot of sorts defining a childhood past and yet undeniably present.
The place speaks of my relationship with my family, the fine line between closeness and the tension of children growing up in sometimes in different directions. The emblems my mom has chosen to keep and display speaks of creativity, exploration, a yearning to define. Isn't this what a home provides for a family-- a safe place to grow and begin to define one's identity...?
I returned home from Korea just weeks before my wedding to gather all of my past life into a few boxes. Before I did this, I sorted and disposed of all that I thought "unnecessary" to bring into my married life. I have made the decision to have "no regrets," yet if I did, my decisions during those few busy weeks would qualify as one. I sorted through my letter box, through years of correspondance, at least from elementary school onward. I have always been an avid letter writer. At the time, I decided that I needed to start fresh, that I wouldn't have space for these papers. Most of the relationships had drifted apart, anyway.
Only a few years later did I realize that I had thrown away what would define years of my childhood-- the ebb and flow of friendships, camp life, my entrance into womanhood. If I could find the landfill where these letters were dumped, I'd dig them out and gather them together again.
But I can't. And I also can't hold on to the regret. They're gone and my life is still intact. I have mourned and now I can move on. I will continue to have to let go of cherished artifacts from the past-- we just simply can't keep everything and with each child, there is more and more stuff to move.
But I do, however, have a new letter box.
The room is also a "catch-all" for my younger brother's relics: a sculpture in the style of Rodin's thinker, a half-burnt candle, LPs from an earlier age. Each item holds between it's tangible lines something very intangible and hard to define. It's like a broken time line, a dot-to-dot of sorts defining a childhood past and yet undeniably present.
The place speaks of my relationship with my family, the fine line between closeness and the tension of children growing up in sometimes in different directions. The emblems my mom has chosen to keep and display speaks of creativity, exploration, a yearning to define. Isn't this what a home provides for a family-- a safe place to grow and begin to define one's identity...?
I returned home from Korea just weeks before my wedding to gather all of my past life into a few boxes. Before I did this, I sorted and disposed of all that I thought "unnecessary" to bring into my married life. I have made the decision to have "no regrets," yet if I did, my decisions during those few busy weeks would qualify as one. I sorted through my letter box, through years of correspondance, at least from elementary school onward. I have always been an avid letter writer. At the time, I decided that I needed to start fresh, that I wouldn't have space for these papers. Most of the relationships had drifted apart, anyway.
Only a few years later did I realize that I had thrown away what would define years of my childhood-- the ebb and flow of friendships, camp life, my entrance into womanhood. If I could find the landfill where these letters were dumped, I'd dig them out and gather them together again.
But I can't. And I also can't hold on to the regret. They're gone and my life is still intact. I have mourned and now I can move on. I will continue to have to let go of cherished artifacts from the past-- we just simply can't keep everything and with each child, there is more and more stuff to move.
But I do, however, have a new letter box.
Comments
Post a Comment