Jack in the Box

Memories are a little like a jack-in-the-box.  It’s colorful and full of something familiar yet unexpected.  So, you wind it up out of curiosity and let the music play, and suddenly something pops up, and it either makes you laugh and say “oh yeah, I remember that!”, or it scares you to death, so you shove it back in and close the lid.  But that curiosity is just too much, so you start winding again, and sometimes you wind a little more slowly hoping to be able to anticipate the surprise.  But, it only makes the music weirder and the anxiety greater, and the surprise either that much more funny or that much more horrendous.  So you shove it back in, slam the lid, and sometimes let it sit on a shelf for months or years, but eventually, it will draw you back in.

The only thing is that I’ve always related a little more to the Land of Misfits from the Rudolph movie and I think mine is actually a Charlie-in-the-box instead.  It looks the same as a jack-in-the-box, it winds up the same way, the music is the same, but when those experiences pop out, they’re just a little off.

I was reviewing some things I had written privately some time ago about some of these events that happened when I was younger, and I started to realize that this is going to be tougher than I thought.  How do you write openly and honestly about events that shaped your life in one way or another without hurting others that were involved in some degree?  Even without mentioning names and being more general with circumstances, it’s hard to know what will be appropriate to share, especially since many close to you will recognize to whom you are referring.  As I look through the things I want to share, I think perhaps I need to have a conversation or two before I get too deep into some of these more painful memories.  And I need to make a decision myself if I’m ready for everyone to know these things or if I need to shove that little Charlie back into his box and shelve him a little longer.  I don’t think I can, though.  Those things were designed to pop out, and at least if you’re the one turning the crank, you have the opportunity to stand by to make sure that the people who might initially be a little afraid get an explanation and a back story to help them understand that it’s just a little metal box with a crank attached to a spring covered in fabric and a painted wooden head—nothing to be afraid of.  Of course, you have to believe that yourself first.

I've been writing these thoughts and memories down for years, and as I get ready to finally piece them all together into some semblance of a book, I hope I can do it justice.  I hope I can capture how these things have shaped me.  I hope it means something.  And I hope I can move forward, because life can be so beautiful.