It was a modest gift: a hand-painted flower pot. I’ve carted it with me through the years. 21 years now. It was the poem by Emily Dickinson chosen to decorate the rim that has kept this humble item with me for so long.
In 1995, when I was in high school, my best friend painted this small pot in antique gold paint. She scrawled the following Dickinson poem around the top.
If I can stop one heart from breaking/I shall not live in vain.
If I can ease one life the aching/or cool one pain
Or help one fainting robin unto his nest again
I shall not live in vain.
My friend added this post script: “Do Not Live in Vain. Do Not Live in Vain. Do Not Live in Vain!”
As if she hadn’t yet driven home the point, the pot is adorned with several simple ways to carry out Dickinson’s ideal.
- Make Magic
- Make Music
- Make a child laugh
- Make a big noise
My friend had moved away in 1994 when we were but fourteen. In 1995, the year of the flower pot, we would grow distant. Letters sent went unreturned. Email was not yet mainstream, and our friendship – or its absence – left a gaping hole.
Yet the flower pot and the poem painted across it stuck with me in deep and powerful ways. This friendship was one of the most important of my young life. And the poem became a guiding principle for me. It was one of the only poems I could ever recite by heart, and it embodied my philosophy for doing good. I knew I was never destined for greatness; I’m no Mother Teresa or future President. But I knew I could make a difference in small ways. I could adopt a cat (or two) from a shelter. I could help a stranger on a train find her way. I could join the board of the Friends of the Library. I could knit a prayer shawl and give it to a friend enduring pain and loss. I may not ever save someone’s life or dramatically alter the course of history, but I could, perhaps, make the world a little brighter for another human being.
Make people believe. (She did.) Or make cookies. (We did that, too.)
My friend and I, after not speaking for four years, had a total falling out in 2002, brought about more by distance, misunderstanding, and perceived malice than by any real wrongs on either of our parts. We reconnected about a few years ago on Facebook, and the warmth has returned to cover the loss, though it is always hard to recover completely across so many years and distance.
During all this time, more than 20 years, I’ve looked at the flower pot as it’s moved around my various homes. I always felt a pang of loss upon seeing it, yet could never bear to part with it; the obvious love, time and effort that went into painting it, selecting a poem, and detailing all the creative ideas has held me captive. Now the friendship has been renewed, so the loss is gone.
And while my friend may never have known it, her small act of giving me that flower pot brought so much to my life. It has always been more that a flower pot, even as it has held bookmarks and doodads; it has been a vessel of inspiration.
If you believe Dickinson, my friend, then you have not lived in vain. By simply giving me this item, you have not lived in vain.
Post Script: I haven’t completely decided what to do with this item. It is certainly not being honored in its current state, but while this blog was meant to tell stories of sentimental stuff in order to part with it, this one may not be destined for the charity box. It may be that in this instance, the point is more to tell the story.
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