The Phone Call That Changed Everything
During this monumental period, my youthful energy and burgeoning success left me intoxicated, naively convinced of the eternity of good fortune. It was a day of realization when I understood the significance of memories as milestones.
Our minds gather snapshots of moments—tokens of joy, scars of pain—weaving them into the richness of our lives. As time unfurls, these memories morph into adjectives, characterizing and coloring our recollections, sometimes subtly reshaping them. They encapsulate the essence of our past, safeguarding our history.
Over time, our minds gently distort our memories, blurring the edges of our past until it resembles an impressionist painting. Despite this, we feel compelled to narrate our tales, to project our life stories into the ether, sharing them with those who cross our paths. This narration becomes an act of paying homage to our past.
The writer, in essence, becomes an archeologist of memory, delicately excavating and preserving thoughts through words. The resultant narratives attempt to impose order on the chaos of existence, a blend of reality and dreams, aspirational visions, and tangible experiences. The words chosen reflect the perception of the writer, the architect of emotion, attempting to encapsulate fleeting moments.
The year was 1995, and a moment of undeniable significance was imprinted on my psyche. I knew that I would someday need to dissect the "why" of its importance, which extended beyond the obvious. The stories we tell ourselves and others are an attempt to render our past into a digestible narrative, a way to offer silent apologies to those we may have inadvertently left behind on our journey. How we offer these apologies is as diverse as our personalities - some choose silence, others words.
The hotel bed, as forgettable as a passerby's face in a bustling city, was an unexpected disappointment in the sprawling resort. I'd anticipated a luxurious haven, a cocoon akin to a fully loaded Cadillac. The grandeur of the surrounding architecture—the stately corridors, ornate furnishings, and extravagant valet parking—amplified my expectations.
As the phone pierced the morning tranquility, my gaze was drawn eastward toward the world beyond the windows. A world unadorned by the resort's opulence. In our periods of sorrow, we often yearn for the respite of happiness, free from psychological or physical pain.
At that moment, perched on the edge of an uncomfortable bed, I was on the cusp of delivering a presentation to 200 colleagues. I was set to step into the spotlight, cast my words onto the attentive audience, and sculpt their thoughts. Invited to share my insights on the elusive notion of "success," I pondered what made me worthy of this honor. Our congregation was a motley crew of salespeople, fresh in the corporate world, ideally armed with Neal Simon's "Death of a Salesman" as a lens to help them understand the human condition and the pursuit of Nirvana, the American dream. Far be it for me to deflate their identities and self-worth and remind them of the human struggle for meaning and fulfillment in a capitalist society.
My father, a nomadic professor with diverse experiences, resided in Phoenix. This sun-drenched city seemed an unlikely destination for his journey's end, most definitely contrasting the vibrant café culture of Athens, where I spent my formative years. Nevertheless, the graduate students, university colleagues, and rich Athenian ethos left an indelible imprint on me.
When the phone rang, its jarring tone took me by surprise. An almost malicious volume is attributed to hotel phones, an intrusion that I attribute to a previous tenant or the frustrated cleaning staff. The harsh reality delivered through the telephone required time to digest.
With age, we come to appreciate the certainty of death, a journey that begins with conception and ends with our final breath. The wisdom we accrue with time helps us understand the impermanence of life, that the soft whisper of reassurance and the acts of kindness are transient and bound to fade away. Only at the end do we briefly understand how much time we wasted doing things we never wanted to do.
Aunt Georgia was the epitome of a mother, a person of warmth and compassion. Her passing, as my father relayed to me in her small home in Athens, shattered my heart. The memories of her kindness flooded my mind, from her encouraging words to the candy she'd share during our walks through the National Garden. She was my pillar of strength, a guiding light.
After this life-altering news, my planned speech crumbled. Instead, the discourse on success and my possible reference to the American dream took on a new depth. I was compelled to share the profound influence of Aunt Georgia, who instilled resilience and self-belief within me.
Stepping onto the stage, I began my tale of Aunt Georgia, illustrating the impact of a few significant individuals in our lives. I shared how she shaped my life and my success, and in doing so, her memory echoed through the hall. As I finished, my colleagues, individuals from diverse corners of the country, stood in applause, each holding their life stories in their hands.