My stash is consuming the living room. Balls of yarn, leftovers, fiber to be spun. Consuming our home, consuming my thoughts at work, consuming my dreams at night.
I started clearing the guest bedroom this weekend with the anticipation that it would become my sanctuary. I have dreams of creamy yellow walls, a pink cushy chair, and beautiful fiber along the walls. A display of beautiful stash.
I have dreams that I will graduate in May, finishing my masters. Part of that dream is having no debt, but the reality of education-on-your-own is that you owe the man for a long, long time. I must find work.
I have dreams of winning the lottery. Kevin and I could buy a house suited for us. I would have a fiber sanctuary. He could write the next great American novel. I would spend my morning sipping Folders half calf with whipping cream and doing things with fiber, while spending my afternoons doing anonymous volunteer work. I stash this dream away.
This week, I was the shoe fairy. On Thursday morning, it was Rachael on the phone bright and early: "so-and-so's back has gone out and she needs a new pair of shoes." I reachin the shoe closet and find that boxed up pair of Danskos from a year ago that are too big for my feet. I put them in a nice bag. They have never been worn. I put a note from the shoe fairy. I place them on so-and-so's porch. This woman barely knows me. She thinks the shoe fairy is someone else. This makes me giggle inside. I know she hasn't had a pair of shoes this nice in maybe...well....forever. They fit her perfect, a nice fit. They fit her personality more than they fit mine.
This all feels right and good. I stash this memory away.
Harveyville. The way the light wakes me gently in the morning. The way that eight women can share a room and I still feel as if I have a single. The way we each encourage the next person as they learn to do this or that. The way my stomach pained for food, but the way that it marvelous food tasted even more magical. The way the breeze can knock you down. The way I felt sooooo clean in the athletics showers. The way I could find little secret places to go and think. The way that Adrian laughs. The way that the angora bunnies cuddle. The way that it smelled just right.
I think I will put that into my memory stash.
Wednesday night, Henry Gates. Dr. Gates. Reading from his memoir, Colored People. A real man on stage, sharing his memories. Me, pondering the importance of perspective and thinking about how perspective looks like a lie to others. Gates. Remembering his mother. Sharing a completely raw moment of his life. Her funeral. Gates, on stage, crying. Being a real man. Letting himself feel an emotion and sharing it with us. I am blessed.
This, too, I will stash away.
