Every day I walked past this mailbox and wondered about the difficulties encountered by the mailperson. I gather that the mail is thrust inside and then the door left open as if the mailperson leaves a gentle reminder to the occupant. Yesterday, I noted that several sunflower stalks— cut down to a mere three inches— freed the mailbox of obstructions.
So many questions:
Did the mailperson request the removal of the sunflowers ?
Did the postmaster send an official letter warning of no delivery?
Did the occupant catch me taking photos?
Hidden from view.
I start reading a book and I am enthralled. The author unfolds new universes, untold pleasures, steamy scenes, settings I'll never see save on a page. I am introduced to a host of characters, even invited to sit in on their conversations. If the author is good what I don't see are the hidden rewrites, the seeking just the perfect word not a slovenly selection of any word. Sometimes I stop reading to catch my breath. Toni Morrison once said that she has rewriiten a sentence one hundred times.
Motives for doing something run the gamut from pure altruism to selfishness, from sloth to ambition, from pride to jealousy, from benign neglect to careful consideration, and the list grows. Sometimes you know the why and other times the real motive remains hidden under layers. Psychologists spend their lives helping people discover the why of their lives. They help peel back the hidden layers. It must be one of the reasons Self-Help books sell so well.
And who has not gone to the physician and been
blindsided, told about a hidden culrpit that stayed
hidden and then appears and disrupts life.
Hidden aspirations and dreams, dormant for years, may surface unexpectantly or may remain half-buried for years. Only after my father died did I learn of his desire to go to a rodeo. Instead, he followed the pursuits of cowboys in a stream of western movies.He cajoled my mother into every movie with a horse and a cowboy. I never understood this passion because my father was an elementary school principal and a vorciferous reader of history.
This hidden desire was once told to my mother—half in jest, but I expect he'd have loved the spectacle.
When I turned ten my aunt gave me a five year diary. I began every entry the same way— Dear Diary, and then told of my day. When I turned eleven I shared something with the diary , something that I hadn't told anyone else. I confessed my desire to become an actress. Now that the diary contained a secret it became easier to tell the diary other personal things like "I stepped on the line in Hopscotch and denied doing so." Now I no longer wanted to leave my diary in the open. It needed to be hidden.
Finding a hiding place in a three room apartment that houses four people wasn't easy. No dresser drawer could be considered safe, no closet, no shared desk. After consulting my friend Ellen whose apartment wasn't much bigger, I decided to hide the diary under my mattress. It was, I thought, hidden in a safe place. I had never seen my mother turn the mattress.
Two days later the diary reappeared on my desk with a note from my mother: When I turned the mattress I found your diary on the rug. Love, mom