Tuesday, November 3, 2009 at 6:58pm
Consider this scene in the Matrix:
Cypher: You know, I know this steak doesn’t exist. I know that when I put it in my mouth, the Matrix is telling my brain that it is juicy and delicious. After nine years, you know what I realize?
[Takes a bite of steak]
Cypher: Ignorance is bliss.
Well, the same applies to widowhood. Ask any widow or widower how they view the world after their other half is gone, especially those who lost their loved one suddenly, and they’ll give you the same answer. Ignorance is bliss. And why oh, why didn’t I take the BLUE pill? (The Matrix theme is a great one and I’ll use it again in other writings, I’m sure. But for now, I did actually have another story in mind today.)
It’s under circumstances like a life-changing event, like the death of your other half, when maybe you gain some wisdom, shuffle through your priorities, maybe even grow a pair. You definitely see the world in a different way, that’s for sure.
I’ve had to do a lot of what I consider “boring grown-up stuff” in the last few days. It probably wouldn’t ordinarily jump out in my mind, but since I have so many of these “grown-up” things on my list that it dawned on me that perhaps, I have actually have grown up a bit.
I was thinking about all the chores and how maybe I’m working on all these grown up stuff to build toward something better. I felt like maybe I was finally starting to piece my life back together.
Not sure if it’s the English major in me, the only child in me (who moved too much and studied other folks and happenings as a result, a la the character, Amelie), the widow in me, or frankly…just the insanity in me, to put meaning in everyday occurrances. It’s what I do.
As I walked down the stairs of my apartment to go do some errands, mind consumed by everything, I stepped upon a few tiny puzzle pieces.
I kept walking.
There were dozens of puzzle pieces strewn in my path on my way. They were barely an inch wide, multi-colored, there was no telling what what the puzzle was supposed to be, how many pieces were in the original box, or how many of them were here on this path along the entire road. I was slightly amused and smiled. I wondered what child had lost their puzzle pieces. I wondered if the child was upset they spilled all their pieces. I wondered if they had already put some of the puzzle together and now lost these pieces to finish it.
And then that’s when I had that standard Gina-esque gotta-find-meaning-and-learn-from-this moment, the type of realization and symbolism that the movies “Lost in Translation” or “American Beauty” is known for.
I walked along the puzzle pieces to my destination and it didn’t matter to me all the sudden what the puzzle was supposed to be. There were so many pieces, that studying each rounded edge and miniscule cul-de-sac of the puzzle piece was futile. Instead, I found that I was looking at each piece and marveling at the colors and textures. Each piece had it’s own identity.
Sort of like how memories and experiences do.
Throughout my youth, I have been completely absorbed by the big picture, the end result. What steps do I need to get to achieve the end result that I desire? How long will it take to get there? How can I efficiently plan this?
And guess what. It all crashed.
Had this been years ago, if somebody showed me a pile of puzzle pieces without showing me the nice little box that it came in with the picture of what it was supposed to look like – I would have gone batty. If somebody had told me that whatever life I had planned out for myself and my loved ones would disappear in one instant – nevermind having the time to plan for a different future, planning to try to avoid the disaster,…or even…planning to say goodbye – I wouldn’t have even been able to grasp that.
Walking around all those puzzle pieces along my pathway is a reminder to me that perhaps I should focus on the little things first, then if I wanted to…perhaps pick up the pieces, examine them, and try to put it together in a meaningful way. If I have some missing pieces, I can try to work on that, but sometimes, there just isn’t a suitable replacement and you’re going to have to suck it up and not have anything there. The surrounding pieces are still going to come together still the same.
In the scheme of things, you’ll still find the beauty in the smaller pieces, figuratively, in life’s events and memories, and you’ll still eventually get to see the broader picture whenever you’re ready to. The point is to have fun, to enjoy the process, to engage the people and things that matter to you along the way.
By the time the trail of puzzle pieces ended, I ended up meeting a widow at the end of the path, quite by accident. Or maybe it was just serendipity. Her glowing smile, radiant happiness, and honest pleasure in meeting me was a confirmation that things are always going to be okay. She’s surviving just fine in this crazy post-death widow-Matrix life. We each have a new set of hopes and dreams. A new life. Maybe even a new love. We are the types who can give love so freely, even after tragedy…especially *because* of such a tragedy. You just have to let things happen at their own course and not force the damn puzzle pieces in places where they don’t fit.
(And to beat some other Matrix analogies to death – sometimes you gotta believe you’re above Agent Smith obliterating you. Sometimes, there IS no spoon.)
A little child literally lost their puzzle pieces along the road, but it’s that child that has taught this grown-up that perhaps, I should not to worry about my own figuratively spilled box of puzzle pieces.
It’ll all come together naturally. Until then, I can smile at all the kaleidoscope of colors strewn along the road along my path. I may not know where that path is going, but with all the cool stuff around that path, I’ve learned that it no longer matters where it winds up.
