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I treasure relationships above everything else.
But……
I like items. Especially miniature items like bud vases, tiny succulents, or little bowls smaller than a toddler’s palm. I don’t care about price tags, current trends, or brands to brag about; but I do like shoes with a rebellious flair and jackets that feel runway-worthy.
There I said it. I feel no less shame, but thanks anyway.
Perhaps my shame is amplified by the immense love and respect I have for my little brother Jeff. We used to call him Jeffy Genius, though he’s not a genius, except when it comes to slaying the guitar.
Thanks to his genius guitar skills, Jeffy can afford all the bowls and shoes his heart desires. But….. his heart does not desire items.
Years ago, I was reminded of his pure minimalist existence. It was right after our mother died when my brothers and I met to spend a few days cleaning out the home where we grew up. By the time we were done, my older brother Kurt and I each had a truckload of items chosen for sentimental value or practical purposes. But Jeffy Genius? He had nothing more than some new photos stored in his cell phone. Each time I found something I knew was an irresistible keepsake, Jeff would hold the item, caress it a bit, and relish in the memory. Then, with his iPhone 2, he would snap a picture and toss it in the discard pile.
The final task was to disperse the items on Mom’s kitchen counter. It was the hardest part of the job because it was like her nightstand for daytime. The counter displayed conveniences, necessities, and her most treasured keepsakes. They represented the very essence of our mother.
Among these items was a red plastic bowl, a bowl with a story. The last time Mom went out to eat was to Mellow Mushroom with my little brother Jeffrey. She loved the asymmetrical design of the red salad bowl so much that she summoned the manager so she could inquire as to where she could purchase one of her own. He was so charmed that he insisted my mom take the bowl as a gift.
I’m not sure she ever ate from that bowl, but it remained on her counter for many months as a reminder of the memory she and Jeffrey had made—talking health, music, and relationships while sharing a salad and pizza topped with tofu.
As we reminisced over the Mellow Mushroom Mom story, I picked up the red salad bowl and said, “Jeffrey, you have to take one thing. You have to take this bowl.”
His hands cradled the bowl, turning it over several times, and to my surprise he said, “OK. Yeah, I think I would like to have this.” With that, he walked his new bowl out to his Toyota Corolla, and he was gone.
Several months had passed when the topic of the red salad bowl emerged again. I received a text from Jeff that said:
Hey Tara.
Thanks a lot for convincing me to take that bowl. It has come in handy.
My other one broke.
That was about eight years ago. Fast forward to today; it’s just two weeks since our father passed away. I think death brings people together with a spirit of peace and vulnerability. Death also has a way of reminding us what truly matters during our short time on the dancefloor of life (I know, I know, not shoes).
When we realized that my dad’s days were numbered, I drove down to Florida. My brothers had said their goodbyes, but I felt a calling to go, have one more conversation with the marine who gave me the fighting spirit. I made it to his bedside less than 10 hours before he took his last breath.
Thanks to cell phones and group texts, my brothers and I were in constant communication during my final trip to see our dad. Just like our days surrounding my mom’s death, my connection to them somehow grew stronger, as if our breathing became more synchronized as our dad’s breathing faded.
After his body was taken from the hospice house, my Dad’s wife Ann and I returned to their home a few miles away. I sat in Dad’s favorite chair for a while and then walked back toward his bedroom. I realized I had no memory of ever walking into that bedroom. As I opened the door, my breathing halted and my eyes filled with tears. On Dad’s nightstand, there were three items: a lamp, a plant, and a photo — a photo of my dad, dancing with his daughter at her wedding in 1989. I couldn’t believe it. Ann told me the picture had been there since they moved in over 21 years ago.
Much like my mother’s countertop, a nightstand is a personal space that symbolizes what you need and what you treasure. Staring at that nightstand told me what I needed to know.
My dad treasured me.
Today’s Talk to the Brain™ Tip is a reminder:
Relationships are our greatest treasures.
Items are merely a substitute for human connection. They may symbolize or memorialize the people we love; but it is the time we spend together that we cannot keep, wear, or display. Relationships, the making of precious memories, are the greatest treasures of a lifetime.
A few days after my dad was gone, I was headed back home when I had to stop to charge my car. Standing in the sunshine, I leaned against a tree to look at some phone messages. There were some texts from my brother, the brother with the one bowl. He explained that he had some trees removed from his property. He wrote:
Since these tree cutters are out here,
I just realized they saved my trip
(that who knows when the hell I would actually take)
to the store to buy a nightstand.
I hope this story made you smile, laugh, and think about how we can change the world.
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