Always look in the box

This is the story about a little girl who would admire a tiny hourglass in her grandma’s kitchen. It was over towards the wall phone and fridge. Did grandma keep it on a shelf or atop the fridge? This is where my memory fails me. I never asked her where she got it. Was it a gift? It only recently occurred to me that she probably bought it as a souvenir in Mexico or it was given to her as a gift from somewhere more exotic than southwestern Ontario. Anyway, as a child, it was the hourglass. A wooden hourglass with hand painted flowers and filled with hot pink sand. Magic. She’d get it out when we played a game that required a time limit. I wasn’t so great at focusing on games. In fact, it was a point of conversation for family members to discuss how little Melanie couldn’t sit long enough to finish any game. Except maybe Uno. Maybe I was more focused on the exquisite perfection of the sand timer.

Moving the story forward a few decades. When my grandma died, I inherited the hourglass. Yes, it was that important to me. I even scrapbooked about it, along with other items that had been passed down to me. I should look for that layout. Then a few years ago, I noticed the timer missing from its spot. Panic. Lamenting. Ruminating. Sadness. Grief. I couldn’t go more than a few weeks without wondering aloud where oh where had my hourglass gone. Did someone take it? I built scenarios of people sneaking off with it. Had my hourglass ended up in the wrong hands and is now lying broken and shattered in a landfill?

So, last month around Halloween, I asked my ancestors to help me find it. I mean, why not, right?

The other day I was in the basement with my husband trying to make sense of all the clutter we’ve collected over the years. I was scavenging for things to give away. I wasn’t planning to part with any of the numerous games stacked on two IKEA bookshelves but then I decided there must be something there which we’ll no longer play. I found two boxes and handed them to my husband as I instructed him to look carefully inside. I said “You never know, this might be where we placed those lost lottery tickets worth millions”. One year, we were given lotto tickets and couldn’t find them by the time we’d traveled home and unpacked our bags. Sadly, there was nothing extra in the boxes. With one final glance at the shelves, I grabbed a kids game that I didn’t even remember that we had. I couldn’t imagine we’d play it again. I was about to hand it to my husband when I remembered what I’d just told him. So, I peered inside and started making very odd loud noises. My husband rushed to my side in great alarm. Was I ill? What nightmare had I just found? No, no, it was just my beautiful hourglass nestled inside the box.

I find it remarkable that right before I found it I’d given myself exactly the instructions I needed to look carefully inside boxes for missing items. Clearly, my intuition was sending me signals! I can’t stress enough how relieved and excited I was to be reunited with this heirloom. The flip side of my relief was the horrible “what if” I hadn’t looked inside the box. What if after all these years of this sweet little keepsake being hidden in plain sight, I’d given it away freely and unknowingly? I hate the thoughts that haunt me. Thankfully, that little voice told me to look inside the box. You never know what you’ll find.

Was stuffy in that spiritual closet

I’m out. I admit it. My brain is woo. Always has been, always will be. I hid it because people don’t take woo seriously. Can’t say I blame them. Mostly, I hid because it meant no one was taking ME seriously. But having been in the closet the past 20 years I began to realize that no one takes me particularly seriously anyway. I was basically just making myself grey and colourless in order to attempt to fit in where I didn’t even want to be. Kind of pointless.

In my advocating for Lyme disease, I’ve learned that it doesn’t matter how well versed I am in scientific research, or how politely and softly I try to speak, minds closed to accepting other points of view do not open simply because I have been rational and scientific. So, I might as well just be me, since I get judged anyway. I don’t think I’ve been very good at hiding my true self anyway. Little rainbows and irridescent sparks of glitter must shoot out of me no matter how hard I try to stuff that life back into my hiding places. I’m about as good at hiding my uniqueness as I am at stifling an eye roll.

I’ve made myself small and have given away my power. I have tried to play by other people’s rules, have failed, and allowed myself to be victimized. To be honest, I’m still not sure how to change that. It’s hard to find your voice, to assert your power, and put up boundaries. When I’ve tried, it does not go over well. I’ll get there.

So, let me tell you about something interesting and annoying that happened today.

Last night I was finishing a book called “Signs“. It is written by the psychic medium Laura Lynne Jackson. She writes about asking for and recognizing signs from loved ones who have passed to the Other Side. Also, interesting to note that her daughter has Lyme Disease.

• 

As I was finishing the book, I thought about how hard it was for me when my Grandpa died. I was seventeen and was desperate to make contact with him. Through dreams or signs. Whatever. I missed him terribly. Last night, I thought about how I didn’t notice any signs from him. Or more likely, I missed them if he did send them. Then I recalled the night I looked at the sky and saw my Grandpa’s silhouette. Now that is a sign. One I both accepted and dismissed. Infact, last night I wondered if I was remembering that quite right. It would be nice to think that was in fact a sign.

This morning, I was watching a Facebook Live video. The person was explaining an exercise in manifesting things you want in your life. I commented that I wanted to manifest a clean basement but worried the universe would make it happen in a way I wouldn’t like. For example, by flooding my basement.

Since I was afraid to ask for the universe’s help decluttering my basement, I decided to clean it myself. I told the kids we were going to spend 20 minutes cleaning. Something small but doable.

That didn’t last more than 10 minutes because I found a bin with some of my memorabilia and artwork. Stuff I actually wanted to keep. It was all sopping wet and beginning to mold. I was livid. I won’t go into why I was livid but trust me, I was. The kids gave me their condolences and I told them they could go back to whatever they were doing before cleaning. I took the bin outside to see what had been destroyed. Most would have to go in the garbage because I can’t have mold in my life. Health hazard. So many things from Japan that I’d wanted to keep. Artwork. Writings. Luckily there was one packet wrapped in a plastic bag.

I thought my earlier comment about fearing decluttering due to flooding to be all the more interesting. Here I was not 20 minutes later decluttering my water damaged belongings. Yeah.

• 

  Ruined drawing

• 

  Ruined Tori Poster

• 

  Ruined clippings from Japan

• 

  Ruined Collaged Poster

Later, I checked Facebook and there was a comment about a toilet photo on Instagram. I had to laugh because in my bin of damaged mementos, I found a piece of writing from high school English class. The assignment was stream of consciousness writing while listening to horrible music selected by the teacher. Two random lines grabbed my attention, “Did you know I’m a social toilet? Well, it’s true. A social toilet is what I am.” No further expansion on what that meant. Extra weird because the person who posted about their toilet photo on Instagram shares my first name.

Then I found a piece of paper that was maybe a journal entry. Not sure. I’ll type it up below.

How interesting that less than a day from remembering that night sky that resembled my Grandpa, I find the piece of paper that describes it.

I want to be really angry that my stuff was ruined but honestly, I had procrastinated sorting through it and organizing it. A lot I was ready to let go of. Finding this piece of paper would likely not have happened for quite some time. So, it is what it is. Most of all, it was good thinking about my Grandpa.

So, I’m sharing this story because it feels better to tell people what I’m experiencing than it is to constantly hide my stories. I want to live in a world where there is wonder and magic. Where my soul sings and my chest and heart don’t feel heavy. I want to feel healthy. There is no point in hiding who I am just so that others will possibly accept the version of me I present to them. That’s not a good way to live.

So here I am.