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Saturday, March 13, 2010

The Story of our Lives

Two things that exemplify “home” to me are books and a piano.  
I love to read and look at the spines of varying sizes and colors which contain universes of stories.  I took piano lessons for five years as a young child, but only dabble on the keys today.  
The connection to these things started early, in my childhood home, where books lined the walls and our upright piano greeted us, daily, with the possibility of music.  My father was an avid collector of antique books and my mother often dazzled us when she’d sit at the piano and whip out one or both of the songs she remembered from her piano lesson days.
There is much more to be said about the people and events in our lives than the things that clutter our spaces.  But sometimes, the most ordinary object can tell volumes about a person and once the person is gone from our lives, for one reason or another, that ordinary object becomes magical.
The other day, FedEX dropped off a few boxes of what remained from my grandparents’ belongings.  Mostly, they were filled with Sherry glasses, salt & pepper shakers and other things of little monetary value.  The soup terrine that was always perched on their buffet is now part of our story.  I never saw the terrine in use, but I do make soup and will give it the meaning for which it was intended; to my children, it will always be Great Sally’s Soup Terrine.
In the world of ordinary objects, my mat has become a talisman.  This narrow strip, designated for my practice to take flight, is nothing more than a man-made cushion.  Yet, when I unroll this ordinary object, it becomes a sacred space for me to explore my story a bit deeper.  
When I tuck my mat under my arm, my children sigh and know that I am off to a Yoga class.  All three of my girls have their own mats and have had their own experiences with yoga.  As they grow and become who they are meant to be, their mats will take on meaning relating to their stories, but will always have roots from home.  
Home is where the story starts.
While the objects in my life are more like bread crumbs, now, than stones, each crumb creates a part of my story before it dissolves into the bigger story.  
What’s your story?


  1. Beautiful as always--I wonder if, as well as 'home is where your story starts,' one can also say 'home is where you start your story?' As my story didn't have a happy beginning, I'm creating my own happy ending by-as an adult-authoring my own story. As part of the autobiography, I'm taking my own mat to a candlelight yoga class this evening.

  2. I totally agree. "Story," in the generic sense, is without judgment or commentary, it is what it is. The choices we make are all part of that story. I am inspired by the path you chose for your story to unfold, that it wasn't stuck in its origins, but that you have become the author!