It occurred to me today that once again I’m picking up pieces of debris in my life. Destroyed bits, ravaged by the wind this time.
The first was debris by water. The Japanese tsunami had just happened at the time of the break up of my marriage. My husband in a fit of anger, can’t remember if he was sober or not, accused me of being hoarder. I was deeply offended by that remark. The things he accused me of hoarding were the bits and pieces of my life that I had hung onto because of the memories associated with them, A broken tea set, a picture from my baptism, art from an old lover, books from my mom’s childhood, baby clothes- mine and my children, photos from generations past, lovers notes, friend’s letters, dried corsages from proms and theater shows. This was not trash or “debris” to me.
In my anger I wrote a poem about my “debris”. Far from being debris they were my treasures and things I could not throw away. I would not throw them away. I think that is what he wanted me to do- throw it away. That was one line I would not cross. I would not throw my debris away.
At this time stories came out about the huge rafts of debris coming our way from Japan. It would wash a shore in Oregon. That seemed a fitting metaphor for my life. What was debris to others was not to me. As I am sure the people of Japan would agree with me on this matter. It was the remnants of their lives washing up on Oregon’s coast. Just as the remnants of my marriage and life would be washing up on a desolate rocky shore somewhere else.
So my treasures, my debris, is packed away in old trunks, for me to periodically take out and examine to see if it is something I can throw away.
Oh so fitting that my husband works at the dump. He continually kept throwing things away in our house so the only things left were the thing I would not part with. We had patio furniture for living room furniture. He would just wear me down with his nagging till I gave in and would throw it away. He threw away our marriage when he chose his drugs over me. In his drunkenness, he pushed me too far. There is nothing wrong with my debris.
So water is my metaphor for the end of my 30-year marriage.
So how ironic to go back over my pieces of debris and reacquaint myself with my first love at 16. Of course I kept everything he ever gave me. I have love notes and letters, artwork, drawings, and pictures. I lovingly examine each piece and packed them back away in my old trunk. A few pieces I kept out to hang on my wall.
When the chance came to reacquaint myself I leapt into it. I plunged. I re-embraced all those old feelings. It was glorious to feel again!
Then came the massive tornadoes in Kansas. Wedge shaped, rain wrapped, E3 tornadoes, that hurled trees into power lines, lifted roofs to fling into pastures, splintered and chewed up house and barns in its way. A different kind of a debris, but debris nonetheless. Instead of being swept away and thrown up on rocky sand ledges it's being swept up into rotational winds that dip and bow and heave debris miles around.
Just so my emotions have been sucked up into a vortex of straight-line winds forming notches in my brain and heart. It went from what would be love, to desolation of too many years and too many relationships in between. A failure to withstand 133 mph winds in houses that have only been built to withstand 90 mph winds.
I am bereft.
So once again I am faced with looking at the debris in my life and having to decide to keep or throw away?
It must mean the next one will be debris by fire. What will be left after fire? Sooty ash and charcoal?
See "More tsnami"
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