Storehouse of memories
I rest quietly on the shelf above the pantry. Waiting. Often my lid is sitting on top of me-upside down. Through the closed doors, I can hear the sounds of the kitchen. I hear timers and music, water and kettles, opening and closings. I hear voices. I hear conversations and stories, songs and laughter, arguments and tears. I can even hear the breaths they take. Through the tiny cracks around the edges of the cabinet doors, tiny particles of life float in. These sparks of ordinary settle in my lid, and a few fall to my vast inside. When the time comes for the door to open for me, I am ready. I rest with a metallic clunk on the burner-left front is my personal favorite. I love the process of being filled. Sometimes more than one person is involved-chopping, measuring, pouring. I love the sensation of warming from the outside in, preparing to do my love-work. Once full and warm, the magical pieces of ordinary life blend with the ingredients to create nourishment. Beyond soup, this blue cast iron pot infuses its contents with the ingredients of a beautiful life well lived. The warmth of moments savored soak in to the dry parts of a person seated at the table filling them more than a simple meal alone ever could.
I am taking a class this semester called, “We live inside a story” and we are using Fredrick Buechner’s book The Remarkable Ordinary. At the first class, we discussed the similarity between the word story and the word storage. Stories are ways for us to store our memories, our life. The question was posed, what image do you have of your ‘storehouse of memories?’ It did not take me long to recall this piece that I had written last year and answer confidently, ‘my cast iron blue pot.’ Have you ever considered this question? What image might you come up with to describe your storehouse of memories?