ode to a not grecian urn

I dashed off a new description of myself for the blog. Interesting, how the most revealing things are those that are intended to be breezy.

My stuff really does mean a lot to me. Perhaps that makes me insensitive to people. And perhaps that's collateral damage when there's such a rapid turnover of persons and places. My things remind me of the places I've been and the people I knew.

Ironic, that. People take on a new dimension, a special-ness if you will, after I leave them. (not going there. whole new post. don't think I want to deal with that level of insight just yet!)

A couple of days ago, an unlatched door swung wildly and hit a terracotta pot. A large, hip high urn that looks like Ali Baba or his pals might pop out at any given moment. It shattered. Like an explosion. And I cried like I lost a friend.

I love that urn. I didn’t even realise how much until that moment. I had never acknowledged it as my own – the man had it from before I moved in. But it survived all the packers and container trucks. All the plants and lamps we arranged around and atop it. All the convivial party-ers that staggered perilously close. And the crawling toddler nudging curiously. It’s been a part of the scenery of our life together. A part of our identity, in the way that how you decorate your home says a lot about who you are.

The voice of reason in my head (my mom’s, I must admit) said, “Get over it. It’s just a thing, a material object. Get another one if it means that much," and “thank god no one got hurt.”

True. But honestly - man off the street getting thwacked by the door vs the pot, I’d save the pot any day. And like I said, this insensitivity: collateral damage.