A Container for the Thing Contained

I like boxes and bags. So did my husband. So does my daughter. Not sure about my son.

I am possibly a Level 1 Hoarder in terms of cool wooden boxes, antique suitcases, jewelry boxes and baskets. I have pretty stationery boxes and recipe boxes -- sewing boxes and knitting baskets. I also like purses, tote bags, backpacks and duffle bags. David did, too. He collected boxes from all over the world -- from tiny brass gem containers to hand-carved hinged boxes with in-laid ivory or mother of pearl -- to wooden cigar boxes. He also enjoyed cases for things -- cameras, little parts for sound systems and recording devices, laptops and even pills. In our closet alone, we have three leather backpacks, two leather duffles, and an assortment of other luggage-type containers. We have extra guitar cases in our attic, freed-up by the indestructible travel cases that he used on airplanes. We have extra rolling bags that came inside the larger suitcases that he procured to replace luggage destroyed by the airline baggage handlers. Since no doorways or exits in our home are obscured by these things -- we remain at Level 1. phew

My dad also enjoyed such stuff. He's the one who coined the phrase, "A container for the thing contained." (or what that Aristotle?) In other words, whatever it is, it has utility if you assign it utility! Pragmatism was one of his strong points. He also subscribed to the philosophy that everyone needed a good rationalization now and then (ie, every day). He liked brief cases and camera cases -- fishing creels and fishing vests with lots of pockets for stuff. He wasn't much of a hoarder, though.

Our daughter just loves containers. She has stacks and stacks of graduated boxes and vintage suitcases in her room -- very artfully organized and very resourcefully used. Beads in some; jewelry in others. Go larger and we have scarves, sweaters, bulkier oil paints and brushes. She uses vases for knitting needles and mason jars for buttons. (She gets that from me.) When she was very young, she always had a bag. Whether it was a purse or a fanny pack or a little tote bag or backpack -- she always had a bag. She always had a collection of stuff inside it that she would carry around with her everywhere. After a few days or weeks, I would carefully unload it -- put stuff away -- so she could begin again her methodical collecting of each day's treasured items -- except for her "China Book." I never removed that. It was her journal. She kept a journal from about the age of 3 on. She still does. And she still always carries a bag, in which you will find at least one. She has a growing assortment of both and she will not desist in the acquisition there of! (She gets that from her father.) A journal is a container for your thoughts and feelings.

Our son seems to be free of the curse. He doesn't have strange (but sometimes wonderful) attachments to very many things, including containers for the thing contained. I MAKE him use those plastic organizer drawers for guitar strings, 1/4" jacks, string winders and power adaptors. He has acquiesced for the most part, but aside from some hand-made pottery pieces on his dresser top and a few little boxes that his dad gave to him, not so much. Of course the opposite can be a problem -- with no container for stuff, the kitchen table, the end table, the coffee table, the stairs, the trunk of the car, the back seat of the car, etc. become the "container." He's a little spread-out. He needs to contain some of his stuff! However, he does keep a couple song journals. He guards them carefully -- they are very private. Just like he is.

David was, perhaps, the most prolific writer I have ever known. He has scores and scores of journals -- from diaries to travel tales to songs. I keep finding them in strange places and adding them to a shelf. This is only a small segment of the stretch of his writing. He liked those marble composition books for songs and, early-on in his adult life, he kept them very well-organized -- numbered and even copied in case he was to lose one of them. I panicked when I couldn't find those first journals, for those are the ones that contain some of his most profound songwriting, but I did locate them on the floor back in the corner of his closet.

The last few weeks of his life he really couldn't write -- cognitively. I always kept a journal right at-hand with a pen and a book -- he was a reader, too. He would hold the pen and open the journal and maybe write a word or two -- but generally not. I was most thankful that neither did he understand what that meant, so it didn't hurt his heart. After we brought his things home from the Hospice House, I found this last journal in his bag. I don't know why, but I opened it. Page after page of nothing ... then all of a sudden, a full page of writing. I figured it was old, but he had dated it. One very lucid day -- my birthday -- he wrote a whole page to me. I can't begin to express to you what a gift that is. I keep it in my bedside table drawer, which contains my most precious treasures. David's head and his soul were great big containers for words and poetry and music and faith. He bubbled-over with substance and wrote it down and recorded it so that we can visit it over and over again. I'm thankful for the media container called the CD, too!

When I consider myself to be a container, it gets a little weird. [weird - [weerd] Adj. 1. involving or suggesting the supernatural; unearthly or uncanny; 2. fantastic; bizarre.]

I am carrying around so much stuff! The last few days and the next few days I'm experiencing a lot of thankfulness and appreciation because of lots of time with and attention from friends. I've been so busy at work, that I've been a bit frustrated. I miss my kids very much -- I got a little sad when I read an email from my daughter today. I was angry that the post office is making me bring a package in so they can ask me if there is anything flammable in it because it's over 13 oz. -- they wouldn't mail my stamped package, so I feel regret that my son's guitar cords will not get to him this week. I am lonely when I'm not busy. I am overwhelmed with undone paperwork. I am grieving the death of my husband. I fear aging. Wow. I have a large capacity for stuff!

The act of writing is sort of like a spigot -- releasing some of this accumulated cargo that really has no place "inside" me anymore (not unlike the random contents of my toddler's backpack). My mind is brimming over its capacity with thoughts and memories; add to those day-to-day appointments and promises and it's plainly overflowing and I become ineffective! I joke about needing a pensieve (a la Professor Dumbledore) to remove some of those mental bits and pieces and store them where I can access them at a later date. Of course, that's really just a note pad and a calendar :-) I wrote a journal for the first month or two after David died. Somewhere along the way I just quit. Maybe writing those 100's of thank you notes replaced the journal -- I mean writing is writing, right? Before he died, I sent regular email updates to family, friends and prayer chains, so I have a record of the weeks and months leading up to his death. But from the time the thank yous were complete to just a couple weeks ago, I had been storing it all inside of me.

Some memories are really difficult and I have to shut them down. Sometimes I permit a painful memory to blanket me -- I deal with the emotions, whatever they are at the time -- and tuck it away again. Some of these things I will never write about -- not for others, anyway. But I'm grateful for this forum to share some of them with you. Thank you for reading the contents of this container for these things contained.