2 hours ago
Friday, August 19, 2011
What is it about the passage of time that makes things so beautiful?
As if, in its newness, a thing is still separate from the world.
The material world needs history, a narrative to give it life.
We breathe spirit into it, as we age and mellow together.
I was at the cottage yesterday watching the men at work, and I realised that we have erased that patina with the new.
The bright, clean rooms await us.
How long does it take to bring the story home again...
Mr Nielson better known as Sid, bought our son Steele a new car.
The car of Steele's dreams.
Steele found it himself on 'gumtree' ( my favourite hunting ground for vintage finds), and went to view it and meet it's owner.
'It's my dream car,' he told Steele, ' I want to do an MBA, and have to sell it to afford the tuition fees.'
I feel so proud of that young man.
He came to our home to finalise the sale. 'What work does Steele do?' I heard him ask Mr Nielson. I wondered how it must feel to hear that Steele was still at school; that the car was a gift for his 18th birthday.
Later, as my son and I sat in the car's plush interior and admired its illuminated dashboard and pristine condition, I couldn't help voicing my sadness.
Just the imbalance of it. 'Be happy for me, mum', my boy asked wistfully. And of course, I am.
But I can't help thinking of the boy who gave up one dream, so that he might forge another.
In Jewish tradition the groom breaks a glass under the wedding canopy, to symbolize the destruction of the temple, our exile and the pain of others even as we celebrate.
I am the chuppah, and the broken glass.