burnt
Well-known member
Original Design - A "Wilson" Moment
One of the strongest moments that soaked into me from Tom Hanks' movie "Castaway" centered on a volleyball he named Wilson, his only - albeit silent – companion. It suddenly floated away on the ocean, out of his reach, forever gone. The pain it caused Hanks reverberated the listener's eardrums in Tom's piercing cry, "Wilsooooon".
That Wilson volleyball was almost the only thing he had salvaged from the plane wreck of which he was the sole survivor, castaway on a deserted island. One thing which made "Wilson" so special was the face-shaped, blood-stained mark imprinted by Tom's gashed hand upon the ball, giving it a character of its own. However tenuous, Wilson was a blood-marked link to Tom's past and its loss resulted in the "Wilson" moment.
Such a moment waved its way from my consciousness into my memory one morning recently when I walked to my usual sun-porch Lazyboy chair, coffee in hand. But it yielded no seating since it was loaded high with a pile of coats for all seasons. The top one bore across its back the familiar brand name "Wilson". What are all these coats doing on my chair?
Aah, these coats belong to my son, the one who is marrying and moving out of our home, starting a home of his own. No more will these coats hang in my closet, other than a brief stay when he visits. I stood crooked and transfixed over the pile; the visual across the back of that jacket transforming into an audible "WILLLSOOONNN!"
Multitudes of images from the past splashed onto my mind's eye in rapid-fire succession, like a living tsunami washing across a breached wall – our son carefully tending to the goatherd he started with his sister, that lightening swing of the bat that crushed the baseball soaring out of the ballpark, his first car parked on the front lawn, reflecting his pride in the glow of its latest waxing- the wave was relentless. Upon his every fiber was the imprint of the hand of his mom and dad, our blood in his image. I was there to change his diapers, when he learned to ride his bike, when he brought his first puppy home, when he left for his first day of work as an electrician. And now those days are ending? Indeed, because here was a coat – crying "Wilsooon"- telling me that it was so.
Ending? Or transitioning? Yes, the days of our son sleeping under our roof were over. No more regular meals at our table, no more piano recitals or drums played in our living room. No more Wilson...a strange mixture of loss and pride flowed through the cascading thoughts------His Christian character, work ethic, commitment – his very life was solid proof of his deserved independence. It was time to find his own shore. But yet…
The moment served as a poignant reminder that there is little that we may permanently claim as our own in life; that we do well to hold only lightly to the things we treasure the most. Because they will always, inevitably slip from our grasp, to float away, far from our reach. A pile of voiceless coats giving loud lesson. However, rather than echoing the despairing tone of Tom Hanks' anguished cry, the space in the closet evokes something more like a celebratory "Bon voyage, son, BON VOYAGE!"
JES, 02/06/2011
One of the strongest moments that soaked into me from Tom Hanks' movie "Castaway" centered on a volleyball he named Wilson, his only - albeit silent – companion. It suddenly floated away on the ocean, out of his reach, forever gone. The pain it caused Hanks reverberated the listener's eardrums in Tom's piercing cry, "Wilsooooon".
That Wilson volleyball was almost the only thing he had salvaged from the plane wreck of which he was the sole survivor, castaway on a deserted island. One thing which made "Wilson" so special was the face-shaped, blood-stained mark imprinted by Tom's gashed hand upon the ball, giving it a character of its own. However tenuous, Wilson was a blood-marked link to Tom's past and its loss resulted in the "Wilson" moment.
Such a moment waved its way from my consciousness into my memory one morning recently when I walked to my usual sun-porch Lazyboy chair, coffee in hand. But it yielded no seating since it was loaded high with a pile of coats for all seasons. The top one bore across its back the familiar brand name "Wilson". What are all these coats doing on my chair?
Aah, these coats belong to my son, the one who is marrying and moving out of our home, starting a home of his own. No more will these coats hang in my closet, other than a brief stay when he visits. I stood crooked and transfixed over the pile; the visual across the back of that jacket transforming into an audible "WILLLSOOONNN!"
Multitudes of images from the past splashed onto my mind's eye in rapid-fire succession, like a living tsunami washing across a breached wall – our son carefully tending to the goatherd he started with his sister, that lightening swing of the bat that crushed the baseball soaring out of the ballpark, his first car parked on the front lawn, reflecting his pride in the glow of its latest waxing- the wave was relentless. Upon his every fiber was the imprint of the hand of his mom and dad, our blood in his image. I was there to change his diapers, when he learned to ride his bike, when he brought his first puppy home, when he left for his first day of work as an electrician. And now those days are ending? Indeed, because here was a coat – crying "Wilsooon"- telling me that it was so.
Ending? Or transitioning? Yes, the days of our son sleeping under our roof were over. No more regular meals at our table, no more piano recitals or drums played in our living room. No more Wilson...a strange mixture of loss and pride flowed through the cascading thoughts------His Christian character, work ethic, commitment – his very life was solid proof of his deserved independence. It was time to find his own shore. But yet…
The moment served as a poignant reminder that there is little that we may permanently claim as our own in life; that we do well to hold only lightly to the things we treasure the most. Because they will always, inevitably slip from our grasp, to float away, far from our reach. A pile of voiceless coats giving loud lesson. However, rather than echoing the despairing tone of Tom Hanks' anguished cry, the space in the closet evokes something more like a celebratory "Bon voyage, son, BON VOYAGE!"
JES, 02/06/2011
