I haven't been feeling well, so maybe the tendrils of that sluggish ague that lands when something's a little off is what led me here. But here I am. I sit in the kitchen, stirring my lentil soup, and inspect my surroundings with an introspective uncertainty.
This is my life right now, I think. Not before now. Right now. All that's here is new.
The print above the cupboard was inspired by a someone only two years my friend. The birdcages nearby I brought home a few months ago. The prints to the left are recently framed. And the shelf they're sitting on, well, we hung that last week. I look around noticing that the walls of my little dwelling reflect the walls of my little mind. I like to do away with the old and replace it with the now.
I'm not interested in old pictures of me. I see them as lies. That's not who I am now. I don't even know who that was then. Now is honest. The past just isn't true anymore.
It seems that I have a puny respect for my history. I don't venerate it the way some do. I decorate my days with little philosophies, and one of them is that each stage of life is one to be overcome. Conquer high school and don't bother looking back. Plow through college, forging yourself into something better, and be done with it. Move away from a place and never visit. Unintentionally lose touch with the friends you left behind; they are the past. Without aiming to be, I'm forward-thinking and only interested in what's next. Who am I working on becoming? Each phase is a precursor to the next and so much less noteworthy than where I am right now.
But here in my kitchen where everything is new, I still display my collection of green glass. It started with a bulbous green vase from my brother-in-law and sprouted, bloomed, grew into enough pieces to scatter throughout the house. My accumulation is varied shades of green--translucent and luminous all--a candle stick, vases, goblets, carafes, bottles, whatever I come across in a verdant hue that strikes me. I love my glass. I love collecting it and mixing the new pieces with the ones I already have. But as time passes, the pieces become old. They aren't a part of Now anymore. They're shards of Then.
Each piece didn't come with meaning, but somehow each earned it. Not a meaning I can give words to. Just meaning in that they are still here. They're the bits of before that I don't mind displaying, that I don't tire of or use as a marker for what needs improvement. I suppose they might signify the few memories that I don't shun and endeavor to overcome.
I'm here in the kitchen, looking at so much new, sprinkled with just a bit of old and find a curious solace in considering that it's not all of the past I disdain, just some--just most. It must be that in bumbling through living we amass our own bits of green glass, and we don't mind keeping them around; they do a good job of accenting what's new.