Day 336: All week I have been taking stock of the things Mom learned at the store that she eventually taught me. Her lessons have stood as good solid footholds for me as I’ve climbed up this steep cliff we call life.
One of the visual reminders I have of those footholds are two apothecary lamps from the store. They were in an old cardboard box in the storage room of my dad’s barn. Mom had passed away, so we couldn’t get the full story. I have no idea why they turned up in the barn, except that my father hated to see things thrown away, so I’m thinking he saved them from a dump run at some point in time. They were filthy. Their long pendant chains were missing. The electrical fittings were rusted. But, through the grime, we could tell the glass was in perfect condition. Dad gave them to us, and we brought them home, cleaned them up, took them to a lighting store to find new electrical workings, and hung them up. One is above our front entry. The other is nestled into an alcove above our hallway.
I walk under them countless times each day. I forget they are there, overhead, even though I depend on their light to move forward.
Do you see the significance? It may be murky. I’m always looking for metaphors. This is what I see: I regularly forget my ancestors. I don’t think about their lives that came before mine as I go about my day. I don’t think about the traits and quirks they passed down to me, or how their decisions shaped my life before I had a life. But they’re always there, hovering above, shedding light on who I was and who I am and who I become.
Taking stock, looking back, recalling the past - ends up lighting our way and shaping our future. I need to remember to look up a little more often.
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