The Glass Case.
My grandmother collected figurines. Everyone’s grandmother collected figurines. It was part of that generation. Their passion for collecting statuettes and carvings of their favorite animals seemed to be something passed down to them through some post-Great Depression-era, genetic modeling. They just knew that at some point in early adulthood the world expected them to start buying and displaying foxes, horses, elephants, polar bears, etc… Name your cliched critter of choice, it’s been hoarded in vast abundance by someone's grandma at some point. Little symbols of happiness is what they were. A generation raised on breadline’s, World War’s, and gas shortages had found a simple, inexpensive way to splash just a little bit of joy throughout their home. Contrasted by our generation who works 12 hour days, 6 day weeks, and uses our homes for binge watching the latest Netflix series in an effort to gain a modicum of peace before laying our heads on the pillow.
My grandmother collected giraffes. Her house was all but overtaken by them. You could almost hear Jumanji drums each time you entered the house. Whenever I would go on shopping excursions with my mother we kept a sharp eye out for anything giraffe related. Whether it be patterns on throw-pillows, statues, books, hell, we would’ve bought an actual giraffe if we had the chance. Legalities of owning a wild animal be damned!
As kids, we were fascinated with the figurines. The detail, the paint, the ability to gaze upon an animal that we only knew from the Dallas Zoo, and a couple of episodes of Sesame Street. We would pick them up and admire them, each one, giving them their due recognition. They sat on tables all around the house. Some sat on shelves mounted on the wall while others sat neatly arranged on the coffee table in front of the old console television/ record player/ built in speaker combo. Yes, they all had that too!
They were all within reach and available to be handled and played with, as long as we did not break them! She seemed to have a peripheral view combined with a 6th sense of when we would pick one up. She would scream from the other room; “be careful with my giraffes! I don’t want y’all breaking them!”
Alas, We did. We damn sure did! Coordination was not among our talents.
There was one in particular that she valued above the rest. I never knew the story of its acquisition but it clearly had sentimental value to her. Nevertheless, we broke that one too. Because, coordination. We’ve already covered this.
That particular one, at some point that I don’t remember, was moved into a glass case she had sitting on a little end table at the back of the living room. Visually obscured behind the arm of the couch and slightly hidden behind the olive green curtains that had hung on the windows for years, it sat. We never touched it again. Once it found its home in that case we knew that we had broken it one too many times. The only way for my grandmother to keep that giraffe safe was to lock it behind protective glass and never let anyone touch it again. We could admire it from a distance and even put our dirty little fingerprints all over the glass, but we dared not open the door. We dared not touch the figurine.
That figurine had been broken and pieced back together so many times that she knew that if it were to be broken one more time it would be irreparable. She locked it away. As a result, it lived the rest of its days safely protected from the clumsy hands of those who sought to learn its details, feel its rough edges, or simply hold it for a moments time.
At some point I’m sure we had developed enough coordination and respect for her décor that we could have handled it safely. This opportunity never presented itself again. It was locked away, never to be held again.
People can be like that statue.
Some people have been picked up, admired, dropped, and glued back together so many times that they finally gave up hope and resigned themselves to a glass case. Maybe not permanently, but they know their breaking point. They know when their pieces are barely adhered. Some people have an inner voice that warns them to lock themselves away before one more person mishandles them and finally shatters them for good. Maybe it’s just for a while. Perhaps they just need some time to let the glue dry and for the paint to be reapplied. Once they feel all put back together they may retreat the safety of their case and allow someone to pick them up again.
The case can be necessary. The case confuses those who have never been broken to that point. Sure, we’ve all been dropped. We’ve all been admired and let down by someone we never thought would break us. It happens. Some people never find the safety of the case because admiration is essential to their survival. Some bounce from admirer to admirer in an attempt to remain relevant. Never knowing the safety and healing qualities of the protective case, they increase the amount of drops to the floor until so many pieces break off and disappear, that they’re never able to be made whole again.
While you may not understand someone’s reason for locking themselves away for a time, know that may be necessary for their healing. We love to interject ourselves into their plan and pull them out of the case before they’re ready to emerge. We do it out of concern, with no malicious intent, thinking that they need to allow someone to pick them up again and all will be fine. It’s not always that easy.
Learn to admire them from the other side of the glass for as long as they need to stay there. Don’t leave them. Your presence is not only comforting, but almost definitely crucial. Their inability to swing that door open and release themselves back into the living room doesn’t mean they don’t need you anymore. It just means they need a minute.
Don’t discount yourself for needing the safety of that case. It just means you have a better understanding of your breaking point than most do.
But, please don’t stay there forever. Heal, and emerge.
People need minutes. Give them that. People need to heal. Let them.
Keep Rockin \m/
Jeremy
