Cedar

"So tell me your favorite thing about Turkey! Tell me a story!" 

It was the well-intentioned request that I dreaded. I dreaded it not because I didn't have a response, but because I didn't have one ready (I should by now, but I still don't). Trying to choose one favorite moment, one story that would entertain, would be like trying to choose what star shone brightest in the sky on a dazzlingly starry night. 

Every single day of our semester abroad was filled to the brim with emotions and observations and concepts and sights and experiences. I wanted people back home to understand as much as possible. Where would I start? Secularism vs. Islamism in Turkish collective memory? The distinctive smell of roasting chestnuts that lingered in smokey clouds along Istiklal Street? Atatürk's piercingly clear eyes vigilantly inspecting the goings-on from a photograph taped to the mirror of a cluttered thrift shop? The fingers of my fifteen-year-old Armenian friend tightly intertwined in mine on a bitterly cold evening? The dangers of journalism and self-expression in the Turkish Republic? 

So to my shame I didn't say much of anything, even though I probably have more of substance to say than I've had in my entire life so far. 

I expected these situations, knew they would be part of that "re-entry" process...but what I failed to anticipate was that I would be most tongue-tied in front of my family and close friends, the people who are actually interested in what I have to say -- the people who will stick around to listen to a this-is-what-I-learned spiel for longer than two minutes.

But I always end up frustrated with myself for not grasping at these opportunities with both hands. It's like half my wardrobe has been reknit with new patterns, added to with more exotic yarns, but I'm hesitant to wear the sweaters because the weather's too warm or no one will notice all the stitches and colors that have gone into the remaking. Meanwhile what I really want to do is triumphantly pull the new sweaters over my head instead of shoving them to the back of the closet. So what if they might seem uncomfortable at first? Atypical fashion statements don't camp out in the comfort zone.

I was recently feeling nostalgic about the past (something you'd think my classes as a history major would have made me more wary of...sorry to let you down, Dr. Chapman) as I was feeling defeated by the request-and-response predicament I have described above. "I feel like I'm brimming with information and knowledge about another place that doesn't ever intersect with life here," I voiced to my friend's mom, "And I'm afraid everything's going to waste." 

"It's not," she said simply, but very wisely. "You need to wait for the right times to pour out what you want to share, and those times will come, and it will be worth the wait. And maybe you're doing it right now, even when you don't fully realize it." 

I desperately hope so. Without writing I imagine I might feel like Tinker Bell locked in Wendy's dresser drawer. 

Anyways, my friend's mother's words reminded my nostalgia-prone self of a memory I have, a seemingly insignificant one but a lustrously clear one. 

I loved the house where we lived for the first several years of my life. I loved curling up next to Grandma in the living room while she read out loud from The Prince and the Pauper or The Hobbit. I loved plucking dandelions from our lawn and rubbing their faces against my own until my cheeks were stained with yellow; I loved picking the tiny purple blooms off the heather in the backyard, even when I knew that mom would be exasperated with me when she saw the bloom-bare bushes later. I loved when the hill nearby was coated in snow and transformed into the perfect sledding slope. I loved our family's asparagus-eating races at the kitchen table, even though I didn't love the asparagus. 

I felt, as a little girl, that there were certain objects in our home that were particularly special. The plain, unadorned cedar wood chest at the end of the hallway was one of them. 

When I lifted the lid, I was always greeted with that familiar aroma of cedar -- masculinely fragrant, enchanting the way that the scent of a Christmas tree is, rich and bold and warm like a cello concerto and full-bodied like my Dad described a glass of really good red wine. I would open the chest like a treasure box just to inhale that smell. Then I would finger through the neatly-folded hand-knit sweaters -- woolen Norwegian-style patterns and pullovers that my mom had crafted for Dad from alpaca yarn. 

A couple of times (before the cedar chest was in use), Mom was devastated to discover that the sweaters she had labored over for hours and weeks had been eaten through in places by moths. Sometimes the damage was irreparable, and she would swear to never again store the fruit of her handiwork in the back of her closet. So my mom stacked the knits into the cedar chest, and the cedar chest protected them in the times when the sweaters weren't keeping her family warm on chilly Northwest Washington days (not limited to the winter months). I always knew when Dad was wearing one of those hand-knit sweaters, because he smelled wonderful, like the cedar chest did. 

I don't know what happened to that chest when we moved. But what I do know is that many of Mom's sweaters are still intact, free of moth-bitten holes. 

So I want to protect my memories and thoughts like a cedar wood chest protects beloved, labored-over sweaters. I might not always be able to wear out in the open what my life experiences have knitted together for me, and some days are better than others for donning sweaters, but I know that those yarns are worth preserving. 

You don't have to choose what star shines most brightly. Maybe you can admire the whole sky, and maybe someone will be willing to do that with you.