This is a true story.
Yesterday, I finally had the resolve to go through my mother’s box of painting supplies. During the last decades of her life, she rejuvenated her creativity by drawing and painting her favorite flowers. I was touched to discover among her supplies, a pin that said, “I Can Create,” part of a client’s 25th anniversary celebration that I had art directed in 1998.
I also discovered a mechanical pencil that used 0.7mm lead refills which was the same size as my mechanical pencil — a pencil I’ve been using lately to scribble notes here, there and everywhere for my ME-moir. I decided to switch out my pencil for my mother’s — channeling my mother’s creativity wouldn’t destroy me, I thought. Every little bit helped.
Anyhoo, switching pencils involved going back and forth between my small reading room and larger writing office, and somehow in the process, I lost the lid to a small plastic container filled with 0.7mm refills — and all of the refills. One second the container was in my left hand, the next, a completely empty container was in my hand.
I looked on the floor because I had actually heard the pinging of small objects falling, so the refills had to be SOME place. I looked. Nothing. I retraced every inch of my steps. Nothing. I went through all of my mother’s painting supplies. Nothing. I got on all fours with a flashlight and crawled back and forth between the two rooms. Nothing.
OMG, I have dementia.
I then caught a glimpse of a tote bag that Beth had given me years ago, a bag I keep on a doorknob on the small reading room door. Flashes of rainbows from the prisms in the reading room window were bouncing off the bag. I stepped toward it to take a closer look at the small rainbows.
I then lost my spit. At the bottom of the empty bag was the top of the lead refill container and all the pieces of lead. They had somehow fallen directly INTO the bag as I left the room.
What are the chances? What does it mean that these refills landed safely into this bag and weren’t broken to smithereens by hitting the floor?
It’s just a fluke, right? However, if the refills can generate an unbelievable story like this one, who knows what the actual pencil will generate? After all, every pencil has a story.
[QUICK QUESTION: Should I begin to wear this tote bag as a thinking cap?]
I also checked that tote bag for my estrogen. No luck.
I just noticed the single hair under my mother’s mechanical pencil in the last photo in this post. I checked that piece of scribbling paper and it’s not an actual scribble. Was that single hair there when I actually took the photo yesterday? Did it suddenly appear when this post was published? Is this my hair or my mother’s?
How much hair will I pull out trying to find the answers?
Don’t you love that my mother had a make-up brush among her 75+ paint brushes? At least I THINK that large brush with the red handle and lovely gold trim in her painting box is a make-up brush. I know nothing about make-up brushes, their uses, if they need refills, etc. Someone please enlighten me.
What a great story. The universe is clearly offering support for writing and creativity. Maybe creativity is in your DNA. You deserve a trait of wonder in your inheritance.
Thank you, Charlotte.
Yes, creativity is clearly in my DNA. My mother saw her house and everything in it, including her daughters, as I way to express herself not only to her benefit and detriment but also her daughters’.
Refills intact, we soldier on.
What a delight! Miracle! Whatever! Hope it keeps those creative juices spilling out. And keeps you on all fours, with your inner flashlight, looking out for all those important “refills” of your life.
Thank you, Carol. Kudos to you for fueling — or perhaps, refilling — the metaphor!
I love this story! Who knows what magic that bag holds? Best take it with you for your COVID vaccination! Maybe it will move you to the front of the line!
Not a bad idea, Beth! I also may begin to wear this magic bag over my head for protection against reoccurrences of skin cancer on my nose!