It is amazing to me just how temporary and fragile everything we (as in our species) seems to be. How long have people been on the earth? In a relatively short period of time after we are no more there will be little evidence of our ever having existed. Nature (life) will go on and hide or recycle any and all evidence that we have ever existed. There is a History channel program that deals with just such a scenario, and it predicts within a simple hundred years (a single human lifetime... albeit an exceptionally long one) there will be nothing but rubble to suggest that our civilization ever existed. In a scant 50 or so years the air will have recovered its pristine quality, and green will cover what were cities and highways. Seems amazing to me. That life could go on without humans, and that the whole of the world might actually be better off without us. That I find profoundly sad.
When you take the entire time period that we as a species have been identifiable as humans and compare it with the total time frame of what is, or even just the age of the earth itself, we somehow do not seem so important. Still, my heart tells me there is tremendous significance in each and every life. That there is something miraculous and even holy in each moment in every life. What we have collectively created may somehow fall far short of what we (at least in my humble opinion) are capable of is secondary to what each life has to offer. I know, deep stuff. Strange what might have led me to this series of observations.
This whole awareness of the fragility of our creations has come about because someone decided to paint a wall. I know, an explanation is in order.
For decades the front wall in the room set aside for the youth group in our church has been entrusted with a record of our little Church's legacy as treasured and important as anything the Smithsonian has within its halls. I know, a grand and over the top assessment, but true for those of us whose hearts were somehow encapsulated on that wall.
It has been a tradition that graduating seniors would dip their hands in paint and leave a hand print on that wall. They would sign next to their hand print, and maybe even leave a favorite bible verse or some other inscription. I have to admit from time to time (when no one might see me) to having walked into that room and solemnly to having placed my hand over the paint reflecting my daughters hand print. I know, silly, but it left me feeling close to her. I could again touch the memorys of that time, and the treasuring of who she was (and the knowledge as to whom she would become) all would wash over me. It was something tangible to touch and let carry me to a different time and place.
It was not just Heathers hand print, there were so many young faces that I/we watched grow up. When you saw their hand print and signature you remembered who they were, and marveled at who they have become. Yes, something tangible to bring you back to when they were perhaps a more intimate part of your life. I know, I am romanticizing. At the time there were certainly things that were troubling, or difficult. What I remember is just the good times. It never failed to reinforce the feeling that I was blessed by these young people.
So, someone totally unaware (blissfully ignorant) decided to paint over that wall. I have to admit an initial desire to inflict some form of terrible medieval retribution. Someone said the person did offer "Well, we took a picture of it...". Sure, that mediates everything. There is a part of me that dearly wants to offer "And we will take a picture of your more intimate body parts so you can remember them..". But, as satisfying as that might be, it will not return the solace I took in standing before that wall. I can still spend time with my daughter. I might still occasionally see some of the young adults who passed through my life and left hand prints on both the wall in the basement, and deep impressions on my soul. It's just a feeling that somehow something that offered something physical that tied me to a different time and place (a time that contained great significance, at least to me) is gone. Strange that a coat of paint can invoke such emotional baggage.
As with a simple loaf of bread, there is an expiration date for everything. It does not take away or diminish the value of what was. Guess I was blessed to have had it while it lasted.
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