Tag: antiques

Antiquities

It struck me the other day that we go all over the world in order to see ancient things. We have museums full of antiquities. We stand in awe of unbelievably ornate and intricate churches and buildings that have strongly, and dependably existed throughout centuries. We gape at ancient works of art, and handle them so gingerly and respectfully. We muse that all of these venerable creations are unrepeatable and priceless. These antiquities hold so much of our history, and so, we in turn hold these relics and monuments in the highest of esteem. The fact is, most of the most beautiful things in our world, both human creations and quite frankly, also the things of nature, are incredibly old.

Why then, don’t we hold the same esteem for our elders? Why don’t we respect and honor and feel grateful for the aging of our own selves? We love the older artifacts because they are a testament to their ability to hold on, and to regally exist for a long period of time. These older things are the basis for everything that has come after them. Our own older selves are an accumulation of many years of life, and experiences, and the wisdom that hopefully is that outcome of these years and happenings.

Treat and respect your aging self, and the aging selves of others, as you do these lovely museum pieces that you have visited throughout your lifetime. You are a one-and-only, a one-of-a-kind masterpiece whom the world is blessed to experience. As you age, you are only more precious. Know this, and know this about others, and hold your head up regally and gratefully. Knowingly allow the wisdom of your years to glow serenely for all of those around you to catch their breath in awe of your beauty, and of your grace, and of your inherent knowledge of so many different eras in time.

Are you passing on love or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.

Acceptable?

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Do you remember when your grandparents said things that were perhaps a little bit socially incorrect, and what they said made you cringe and groan, but you kind of gave them a little bit of a pass because what they said wasn’t meant to be mean or hateful, and what they had said, came more from the fact that they had been raised in a different era (and also, you absolutely adored your cute, now child-like grandparents)?

It hit me yesterday, that I have passed into that age bracket, where if I am not careful, I could be the cause of the cringes and groans. (another aging milestone – yippee) My friend was relaying a story in our friend group text chat, which I won’t relay because it is not my story to tell, but she was saying the difference in reactions, between she (mild discomfort, but generational understanding) and her daughter (pure outrage) to something that a friend of a friend had said, in playful passing, was nothing short of striking.

The story my friend relayed put me in mind of a conversation I had earlier this week with my youngest son. He is home for the Thanksgiving break and he had seen one of their childhood buddies at the gym. This young man is a brilliant guy and is attending one of the most prestigious law schools in our country. My son relayed that his friend had gotten both of his ears pierced. I must have said something like, “Oh brother! Why would he do that?! Isn’t he in law school?”

To which my son, answered, “Mom, stop being so antiquated.”

I replied, “I am antiquated.” And then I pondered about it. I am antiquated. Facts. I have officially reached the beginning of antiquity. My thoughts and my feelings and my perceptions and my impressions about things, perhaps need some cleaning up and modernizing, I suppose. How much of what I say and what I do and what I think, are actually my true beliefs about things, and how much of this is just mind-swirl, indoctrinated stuff from my childhood, which has always been validated by my similarly raised generation, until the younger generations started into adulthood? Do I really want to become one of those cantankerous old ladies who everyone gives wide berth, but excuses my wackiness for my age? If I do want to become one of those outspoken old coots, I want it to be about things that I do feel strongly about, things which I have really contemplated about from every angle, and things that I know from the deepest parts of my heart and my soul to be timeless and true. I don’t want to ever become so antiquated, that I forget that I can be wrong about things. I can be wrong about a lot of things. I never want to become so antiquated that I become afraid of change. I want to be one of those interesting, intriguing antiques, that is so uniquely cool and so genuinely itself, that it is not just tolerated up in the dusty attic, but the antique makes a major comeback, because there has never been anything quite like it, ever made.

Relics of a By-Gone Time

I’m so sorry that I haven’t been posting early, the last couple of days. I would like to pretend that it is because I am so enthralled with the seminars my son’s university has put together for us parents during the freshman orientation, but that would be a lie. Since my son is attending the same university that his older brothers have attended, I could honestly run some of the parent seminars myself. I have the slogans and fight songs memorized and I don’t need another campus tour. So, instead of attending the refresher courses this morning, my husband and I escaped to a quaint little historical nearby town, about 20 minutes away from campus. This town is known for its history and its antiquities, not for its WiFi connections. I cannot pretend that I found that fact to be entirely disappointing. This was one of those towns that really did feel like a movie set, a movie set dedicated to a different era – a time period when everything was slower paced, so slow-paced that it was like the town had decided to stand still and stay a while, swinging on the porch, as everything and everyone surrounding it, sped into the future at high-tech, warp speeds.

I wandered into one intriguing shop and got to talking with the owner, a lovely, dignified woman, who told me that she had owned and run the shop for 39 years. Her shop was “a feast for the eyes” and even though it was crammed full of things, she had so thoughtfully and so tastefully displayed everything, that it felt like you were walking through a perfectly restored story book. You started out in a lovely, aromatic garden section, walked through a festive Christmas village, wound around into an old-timey Americana rustic display of antiques and relics that still retained their original charm and now commanded prices ten times more than their original costs, and finally ended up in a corner of delightful Halloween decorations. This holiday corner almost managed to put the Christmas town to shame. The Halloween section was unbelievable, not at all kitschy, even with its bright, glittering orange trinkets covering the walls and the ceiling, from every imaginable angle.

“You really have an eye,” I told the owner. “I wish that I could make Halloween look like this, in my home . . . if it did, I would probably keep the decorations up, all year long, it’s that pretty!”

“Oh, it’s easy. You just need a lot of cute stuff,” she said modestly.

“No, usually a lot of stuff looks like a garbled, cluttered mess, but you make it look like a sensible, beautiful pattern,” I insisted.

She sighed. “You are right. I couldn’t teach any young ladies to do this anymore. They aren’t interested. These types of stores are soon to be relics of the past.”

I wanted to assure her that she was wrong, even as I sheepishly thought about how much of my own shopping habits have changed over the years. I probably shop for at least 80 percent of my purchases online and have them conveniently delivered right to my front door. The shop owner and I talked some more and I opened up to her about playing hooky from parent orientation. I admitted to this perfectly lovely stranger that I was growing out of the occupation (motherhood) that had been my major purpose in life, for over 23 years, and that I was struggling to find my next thing.

“That’s a hard stage. It’s hard when things come to a close,” the shop owner sighed again. We looked at each other knowingly, kindly, comfortingly. And then I purchased a beautiful Christmas ornament, fashioned from antique porcelain which was dressed up with a bow that the owner admitted that she had added to it, because her discerning eye knew that it was the bow that was the needed, magical touch. She wrapped my ornament carefully in beautiful colored tissue paper, and placed it gently in a brightly colored bag. And then, as I reluctantly left the unique and charming store, a store that reflected the love and creativity of the owner who nourished it, she smiled at me as she followed behind me. Then, she hesitantly turned the sign, the attractive sign hanging on the front door of the store, the sign adorned with a delicate, carefully considered ribbon of rope, to . . . Closed.