A Silver Box of a Planet
“It is more important now to be in love than to be in power.” —Barry Lopez
The silver box is inscribed “Corky and Jetta / from / the Officers [of] Fighter Squadron 84 / 1 May 1954” (the day my parents married). Inside, it is lined with wood that looks like teak, though it is very dry.
There is an off-center divider, with a second groove at the center. It looks like a cigarette box, though neither of my parents ever smoked. (“I tried it once,” said my dad/Corky, “and Mother washed my mouth out with soap.”)
A wad of bills fills the larger side; in the other I keep matches for lighting the candle I write by. The bottom matchbook is embossed with an “M,” from my sister’s wedding in 1982. Both couples are still married. The bills—eight $1, four $5, one $20—are from a stash I started when my then-husband (I prefer “wasband” but people don’t understand) and I separated in 2006.
Our divorce would be finalized just before our 22nd anniversary. For the previous 15 years I’d had the so-called luxury of keeping house, being lead parent, getting a graduate degree, and volunteering at church and for the kids’ schools. When we separated, he had to co-sign the lease for the place I rented because I had no employer.
Being broke was just one of things I was afraid of. Also loneliness, the effects on our two teenaged kids, and not being able to restart a career.
My new neighbors taught me to play poker; we used nickels and quarters. When I won, I’d put the money in the silver box for the next time we played. A year later, I moved away from the poker gang.
No longer handled regularly, the money became a secret stash that took on a curious power, as if it stood between me and rock-bottom. Come what may, it whispered, you’ll always have bus fare and cash for a meal.
In actual fact, my fortunes were not so precarious. My partner’s generational frugality—and my full adoption of the scarcity mindset—meant that my divorce settlement afforded me the down-payment on a townhouse. A part-time job and period of alimony qualified me for financing. And my family had my back.
On the day I’d first gone looking for a place to rent, my dad called, which was almost unheard of. He told me not to worry about keeping a roof over my head. He would make sure of it. That is luxury.
When pay for a freelance gig came in, I’d add a couple of bills to the box. It made change for me when I needed bus fare, but over time, the wad took on a more sacred aura. Became untouchable, and so became part of my story.
More than a mere symbol of security, nestled in slightly-more-than-half of my parents’ box is a wad of the fear I lived with in that time. Would I be able to build a life in which I could thrive and support my kids in thriving? I had no clue how to do the task before me: To step into the void, and like Indiana Jones, trust that the way would appear.
Those bills have been in there every time I’ve reached for a match, but today, for the first time, I picked them up. Counted them.
As if touch opened a portal to understanding, I knew instantly why I’ve mostly avoided even glancing their way: Those folded bills ask (such patience!), Are you there yet?
I don’t know.
Sea ice in the Arctic Ocean has shrunk to the point that shipping companies are exploring regular use of the once-mythical Northwest Passage in summertime.
Does it matter if I’m thriving, if my home is not? If aquifers have been emptied so fast that the land above them actually subsides? It’s easier not to look at that news. Those stories.
We are building lives in a world we have no precedent for. A lot of smart and thoughtful people are working overtime to forecast what Earth will look like in 10, 50, 100 years if we do nothing different. If everything we do is different. If we follow a course in-between.
Fewer people now accept the fossil fuel industry’s fiction that burning the resources that build their wealth cannot be the root cause of these rapid changes in climate and weather patterns. Exxon’s own scientists predicted the current extent of climate change with startling accuracy as long ago as the late 70s and early 80s.
I’ve had trouble understanding the success of their subsequent doubt-seeding. If you’re zooming along an unmapped road and one person in the car warns, There’s a sharp turn coming, and another counters with, No there isn’t, wouldn’t you at least ease up on the gas?
Then I see the box. Consider what’s inside. So much easier in the moment to look away. Strike another match. Shut the lid. The reservoir of fear is never empty.
Activism is not my strong suit. The gravity and urgency inherent in such work override passion and paralyze me. Some personalities seem to thrive on anxiety, on its amped up energy. Not me. Overwhelm comes quickly and I escape. Books, wine, denial—there are many paths out.
How do we “embrace fearlessly the burning world?” Barry Lopez, whose beautiful phrase that is, actually asked—in 2020, some months before his death—not how, but whether it was still possible. In the preceding pages of that essay, “Love in a Time of Terror,” he had written that the how is found in love.
“Evidence of the failure to love is everywhere around us. To contemplate what it is to love today brings us up against reefs of darkness and walls of despair… We need to step into a deeper conversation about enchantment and agape, and to actively explore a greater capacity to love other humans… It is more important now to be in love than to be in power … to live for the possibilities that lie ahead than to die in despair over what has been lost.”
And I recall: “perfect love casts out fear” (1 John 4:18). I have no illusions about my ability to love perfectly. Rather, when fear threatens to overtake, love (the verb) can reset the focus on “the possibilities that lie ahead.” Like a compass heading, turning me toward the direction I need to face.
You can use it to light anniversary candles!
I appreciate your clarification that the skull matchbook is NOT the one from my wedding :)