Two years ago a received a lesson in the art of living. That Christmas, I folded a copy of it in four, placed in handmade felt pouches, and shared it with the following letter addressed to my friends. It was William’s gift to me. It still is. To all of us.
Whitehouse Station, December 12,2008
“William’s Desk”
We are the second family to live in this old house. The first time we visited the place, there were still books forgotten on the shelves, clothes hanging in the closets, personal items here and there, old bills and last year’s calendars, and several picture frames documenting important moments of the previous owners’ lives, but the day we moved in everything was gone except the large tiger maple wood desk, where I now sit writing in between glances of nature outside the five windows of this small library.
The enthusiasm and industry (and sometimes sheer despair for the series of never ending projects) with which we have tackled renovations have been punctuated by doses of nostalgia triggered by thoughts of how quickly we go from building a home, raising children and letting them fly, to the irreversible process of growing old and dying. But even though William and Clara died in 2006 and early 2008, respectively, this space still remembers them, and the house, no matter how many coats of paint, will always have layers of their history. I do not wish to erase their presence and replace it with ours. I rather honor their absence by appreciating and respecting the job they started, and by loving the land and the blessings of each room and the landscape outside our windows.
I have questioned myself often about who they were, what did they think, where they came from, how did they feel about this piece of land and the old trees that shade it, the deer that cross the property, and the black-capped chickadees, sparrows, blue jays, cardinals, and tufted titmice that have breakfast on our back porch. And as always, I am a firm believer that when we open ourselves to possibility things will find us, neighbors will reach out and share bits of information, and most importantly-the house will gradually reveal their presence to us.
On this note, we have been given our first gift the week we moved here. I was cleaning the bookshelves, my mother was polishing the desk and lining its drawers, and we were wondering about William and Clara’s life, and how we wished to know more than just their names. I had just finished saying (more to the house and its previous occupants than to my mother or myself) - “I hope they know, that I’ll take good care of their space and will continue what they started”-when my mom raised her eyes from her task and handed me two letters she had just found taped to a pull-out writing board overlooked by whoever had cleaned William’s desk.
My gift to you is the gift William left me taped to that writing board. Not only did he reveal himself and answered some of my questions in one of the letter, but he has also brought me a message in the art of living, and a warning about not waiting until 1996, the date he retired at the wiser age of 70, to follow through with plans we should execute every single day of our lives.
May you, this holiday season and every day of your lives,
“Pay attention!!”
Isabel
“William’s Desk”
We are the second family to live in this old house. The first time we visited the place, there were still books forgotten on the shelves, clothes hanging in the closets, personal items here and there, old bills and last year’s calendars, and several picture frames documenting important moments of the previous owners’ lives, but the day we moved in everything was gone except the large tiger maple wood desk, where I now sit writing in between glances of nature outside the five windows of this small library.
The enthusiasm and industry (and sometimes sheer despair for the series of never ending projects) with which we have tackled renovations have been punctuated by doses of nostalgia triggered by thoughts of how quickly we go from building a home, raising children and letting them fly, to the irreversible process of growing old and dying. But even though William and Clara died in 2006 and early 2008, respectively, this space still remembers them, and the house, no matter how many coats of paint, will always have layers of their history. I do not wish to erase their presence and replace it with ours. I rather honor their absence by appreciating and respecting the job they started, and by loving the land and the blessings of each room and the landscape outside our windows.
I have questioned myself often about who they were, what did they think, where they came from, how did they feel about this piece of land and the old trees that shade it, the deer that cross the property, and the black-capped chickadees, sparrows, blue jays, cardinals, and tufted titmice that have breakfast on our back porch. And as always, I am a firm believer that when we open ourselves to possibility things will find us, neighbors will reach out and share bits of information, and most importantly-the house will gradually reveal their presence to us.
On this note, we have been given our first gift the week we moved here. I was cleaning the bookshelves, my mother was polishing the desk and lining its drawers, and we were wondering about William and Clara’s life, and how we wished to know more than just their names. I had just finished saying (more to the house and its previous occupants than to my mother or myself) - “I hope they know, that I’ll take good care of their space and will continue what they started”-when my mom raised her eyes from her task and handed me two letters she had just found taped to a pull-out writing board overlooked by whoever had cleaned William’s desk.
My gift to you is the gift William left me taped to that writing board. Not only did he reveal himself and answered some of my questions in one of the letter, but he has also brought me a message in the art of living, and a warning about not waiting until 1996, the date he retired at the wiser age of 70, to follow through with plans we should execute every single day of our lives.
May you, this holiday season and every day of your lives,
“Pay attention!!”
Isabel
4 comments:
Thank you Isabel for the good reminder.
Love . . . Arija
I'm of the party that believes list-making is a good thing generally (although people who are habitually more organized than I probably have less need to do this).
This list is indeed telling at the same time we are all more alike than we believe.
I so love reading your wonderful writing, that flows so beautifully from your mind to mine.
I remember this, and it still gives me goosebumps.
xo
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