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| My crumbled Parthenon |
Today someone broke a small statue of mine. I’m not much of
a knick-knack gal, but this one came from Greece. Its value was mainly
sentimental, a relic of a wonder-filled trip with people I love. It certainly
wasn’t expensive. Well, not unless you count the plane ticket to Barcelona and
the cost of cruising through the Mediterranean.
The accidental vandal was contrite, willing to buy me a new
miniature Parthenon. Obviously that won’t work. But does it really matter? The
main reason I purchased the trinket was to remind me of our trip. We have doohickeys
and photos enough for that. And elusive, shifting memories.
I see a crowd of umbrellas and I’m transported to Rome, where
we drowned in torrential rains in the Coliseum. The musty odor of cool
cement sends me to the soaring columns and crenellated arches of Athens.
A blast of hot, gritty wind, and I’m in Cairo, watching sun set right over the pyramids.
Souvenirs may not last. Memories fade. But such is the way
of this world. If you’ve ever built a sand castle anywhere near the sea, you
know what I mean. You could spend hours constructing an architectural marvel. Ultimately,
the tide washes it away. Waves pound even the sturdiest shells into tiny
bits. Over time, the ocean carves coastlines, changing our maps. But this
changeableness does not detract from its beauty.
Are we wise to build sand castles, only to see them swept
away? What about flowers? Is it practical to plant them only to have them
wither in winter? And the memories we build, with our loved ones—when the
trinkets break and the details blur in our minds, does their worth cease? Of course
not. There is intrinsic value in the actions we take to create beauty in our
lives, even after those beauties fade. So I build. I create. Even as weeds try to overrun me and sometimes succeed.
How do you fill your life with beauty?
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