Seven years ago, as I prepared to move to California, I wrote the following essay for She Magazine, a small South Carolina publication. I looked forward to living near my daughter, meeting my new grandson, and finding another fresh start. Now, in January of 2010, I have difficulty believing that seven years could have passed. Just this last weekend, Papa asked me if I feel at home here, now. I said that I did. I certainly do. And now I don't want to move - a contrast to these thoughts from 2003:
A New Box of Crayons
Do you remember how you used to feel when you opened a new box of crayons or a new pack of notebook paper? Somehow opening that box, sniffing the wax, and examining the pristine points of each stick thrilled me. Just owning a whole pack of notebook paper was an upper, and turning to a clean page in my binder always pleased me. Sharpening new pencils, smelling the fragrance of the wood, and writing with that new, perfect point did, too.
I still experience that thrill. I feel wealthy when I buy a new notebook, a new pack of printer paper, or a new pencil. A new bottle of my favorite paint, a new paintbrush, or unused eraser provides a rush. Pulling out an unspoiled sheet of illustration board presents a challenge but lifts my mood. A new needlepoint project or fabric for the next quilt is better than the old. Pouring out the last of the shampoo gives permission to open a new bottle. I want to use up the last bit of soap so I can unwrap and savor the fragrance, the smoothness, and the way a new bar feels in my hand.
I enjoy new clothes, but not because I look way better in the new ones. They are, well …… new. I feel the same about a freshly made bed or clean towels by the shower. A sparkling kitchen after I clean up the dinner dishes boosts my spirits and gives me the false hope that it will stay that way.
I like new beginnings and anticipate what lies ahead. I tire of the old and crave opportunity to change. With each new year, I want to start something fresh and different. When I start over, I expect to improve. Each new beginning is a chance to prove I am really better than I have seemed to be before.
Several years ago I heard Hugh Downs say he needed to be repotted from time to time. I feel that way, too. Though I must have been a little anxious about the future when I moved to Florence, I mostly remember the excitement of starting third grade in a different school with a new teacher, brand new books, and, of course, new paper, pencils and crayons. I could look forward to the challenge of finding my way around and making new friends, too.
Since that year I’ve survived many repottings. Each provided challenges, and each provided thrills. Beginning junior high and high school, going away to college, marrying and moving far away, becoming a parent, going to graduate school, starting new jobs, returning to Florence after many years, and opening a business have all been opportunities to feel the exhilaration of a fresh start.
And each year as I take down the Christmas tree, put away the decorations, and return the house to order, I feel the transformation is a little like some of the bigger changes in my life. Cleaning up after the holidays and welcoming a new year mark a time to start over - a chance to do better. I always think the house is going to look neater, and I am going to be more organized. I am certain I will paint a masterpiece, write a perfect story, finally make my red and cream quilt, and find my life’s purpose in the new year.
2003 should be no exception. I face it with some trepidation and with a sense of adventure and great expectation. This year I will move again, become a grandparent for the first time, try to stay retired from most of my careers, and face the challenges of finding my way around and making new friends again.
When I try to imagine how my life will be different a year from now, I find that I can’t picture it or imagine just what I will be doing. It will be a fresh start. Thankfully, I keep my family, all my old friends, and beautiful memories as I begin this new journey and anticipate the next new box of crayons.
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