365 True Things: 286/Truths

Today my role model in this daily blog post journey (who is two days away from being done!!! eek!!!) published a long list of some of the "truths" she revealed and/or learned about herself during this process. I could conceivably use each one of them to finish my last eighty days. They were pithy truths like:

• Small truth: ZipLoc-bag user
• Large truth: I believe in myself
• Truth I tried but failed to change: So not a morning person
• Truth I'm not proud of: Money motivates me
• Funny truth: I talk loudly on the phone—only on the phone

And on and on: she learned quite a few things about herself working on her blog. And it was fun to read through them. She has come to feel like a friend during this yearlong process.

I will try to revisit all my posts at the end as well, and maybe I'll come up with my own list. Though that's a ways a way . . .

If I were to summon up my own particular truth for today, it's that I'm a little sick of myself. All this writing about me, me, me: it gets old. I know I'm not that interesting, nor are my wants, fears, or hopes.

But oh well, it is what it is. So for the duration, I'm going to try to focus a little less on the mundane and material (now that I have that new car checked off!) and more on the philosophical, moral, and emotional. On beauty and justice. On, yes, truth.

So here's a truth, one that surprises me: I was very moved to visit Eleanor Roosevelt's Val-Kill Cottage near the Roosevelts' Hyde Park estate, in June 2007 when David and I spent some time traveling in New York State. I loved seeing her things, and our guide was evocative about the various emotional connections her things had for her, and for us Americans as well. Her cottage was both plain and homy—nothing pretentious about it at all.

Here's a photo I took, and the caption I posted with it:

Not much of a picture, but this was Eleanor Roosevelt's bedroom, and those were her pictures--with stories attached. My mother met ER in the 1930s when she was in college, and I've heard about that meeting since I was born. It was very moving to walk through the same halls ER walked through, to touch the banister she touched, to look out on the Val-Kill water that she got so much joy from. Our guide, a ranger named Fox (James?), lamented that her writing chair was in storage, when it should really be sitting in the corner of the sleeping porch (the bright light in this photo is coming from the sleeping porch). I agree. To see that chair in its rightful corner would almost allow you to see Eleanor herself sitting and writing a letter or one of her "My Day" columns--straight from the heart.

I think I was also moved because ER was such a hero of my mother's, and my mom would have so enjoyed visiting Val-Kill as well. I felt like I was soaking it up for her . . .