“More faces have I,” says the Mystery Bag.
I was watching the movie Marley & Me with my son Paul last week. This is a sweet movie about a family owning an outrageously naughty golden lab named Marley while the parents – Owen Wilson and Jennifer Aniston – try to balance careers and raising three children.
In my last blog, I wrote about how many of us carry mystery bags. This where we store beliefs and quiet moments that secretly acknowledge that there is ‘more’ to the Universe than our every day lives allow. This is where we believe in premonitions or ghosts or practice yoga or do energetic bodywork. This part of us lights candles or doesn’t quite discard astrology, or can feel when a friend is about to call. We do not share this in our professional lives or at a cocktail party. This part that feels embarrassed when it is judged.
But our mystery bags also have a different face.
Paul and I are watching Marley & Me. I am liking the movie more the second time. I am the kind of dad that wants his son to ‘see’ more deeply into content, to appreciate the nuances of good storytelling. To seek deeper meaning is something that must be taught and shared. It takes practice. Unfortunately or fortunately, Paul is subjected to this on a regular basis. We start talking about how the difficulty of owning Marly is functioning as a metaphor for the difficulty of raising a family.
Marley was the kind of dog that annoyed everyone. He was terrified of lightning and destroyed almost everything left on the floor. He even ate an answering machine. Living with Marley was a horrendous burden. And yet, Marley grew up with those kids. By the end of the movie, the kids are about ten, seven, and four and Marley is fading into doggy old age. The emotional climax is when Marley must be put down due to cancer and Owen Wilson is talking to him just before the lethal injection. The family is beautifully ripped by Marly’s passing. The sadness is deeply shared by the audience,
Paul looks over at me, shakes his head, and says, “Dad, are you crying again?” I nod quietly and say with a shaky voice, “Caring for Marley is a perfect metaphor for life.” In a misguided parenting moment, I want to pour truth toward Paul. But he is not ready. I want to tell him that it is the toils and the struggles that give meaning to life, not the easy stuff. I want to tell him that this is perhaps the greatest mystery of all.
Instead, the moment passes and the credits begin to roll. He flips the channel and I eventually write this blog.
And the mystery bag of everyday life rolls on.