Among the things that’ve been stored at my Mom’s was my giant box of LEGOs from my childhood: untouched since they were packed up, probably before leaving for boarding school. I long figured they’d arrive and I’d just add them to my kids’ collection, and I have. Upon opening the box though I found figures and vehicles I last touched thirty years ago: a rocket-powered front-end loader, a small truck with giant wheels, the crumbling wall of a distant interstellar outpost (on an original moon baseplate no less). The experience of watching my children –7 and 9 respectively– pick up toys I seemingly just set down as a child myself was one of the most surreal and rewarding experiences of my adult life.
It’s not my nature to be a pack rat, at least not since I first picked up the Dharma. I’ve given my things away with heedless regularity since then. My LEGOs were my favorite toy as a lad though: the toy that appears most in happy memories of my youth. Knowing then as I do now that to be a father to my children was my sole desire, the still-attached me asked my mother to store these against some happy future full of children brimming with energy and imagination. To watch my children add their own touches to figures I assembled as a boy is quite literally a dream come true, and satisfies my soul with a pervasive vigor reserved for religious ecstatics.