Okay, so here comes the part about the poetry of small things. Call it poetry, call it serendipity, or, if you are more inclined toward the mystical and the collective unconscious, call it synchronicity. I do.
In preparing the extra bedroom for the impending tenant, the contents of the room were quickly moved to the garage. A family member had dibs on one of the file cabinets, so I thought I'd nuke its contents quickly. Part of the excitement of this new life is an ongoing purge of stuff....old bills and documents, extra clothes and shoes, objects that make me feel moored to the past, and not in a warm or nostalgic way. Firing up the shredder, I feed the soulless stacks of bill stubs and records into its hungry jaws, careful not to jam the delicate gears. But I am greedy---greedy to reduce this pile of stuff to spaghetti.
Amid the garbage is a large manila envelope marked "confidential," another one marked "Emotional baggage," and the kicker, a fat, business-sized envelope bearing the unmistakable handwriting of my mother. "Uh, oh" I think. It's THAT letter. I care for myself by not ripping it open and devouring the contents, and save it for tomorrow; the morning light is more forgiving than the vulnerable evening.
Remember the words to "The Farmer in the Dell?" If the rat had not gone out of his way to eat the cheese, perhaps the cat (who ate the rat) would not have snagged him. If things had not happened as they did, perhaps the cheese would not be standing alone....If the mold had not been discovered, I would still be trying to solve the mystery of my hives. And if the mold had not been remediated, I would not have moved my office, leaving the abandoned office with the thick, musty, mystery smell. If the friend had not asked me if I was interested in having a tenant, the room would not have been cleaned up anytime soon. And if the room had not been purged, the letter and important envelopes would not have turned up.....
High ho, the derry-o, the Farmer in the Dell.
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