Benjamin knows how many scenes there are in movies. Toy Story has 30. Chitty Chitty Bang Bang has forty. The Wizard of Oz has forty eight.
I have no idea how he uncovers this, or why. But it seems to help him out when he wants to rewatch his favorite parts. Recently the movie de jour is the one about Dorothy. Since his spot at the desktop is a few feet away from mine at the sewing machine, I've been eavesdropping too.
I find myself less vulnerable than when I cuddled up with my siblings on the couch, afraid of those terrible monkeys. The witch stills cackles, and the wizard still thunders, but I have seen the limits of their power. All it took was water to melt the witch. The wizard hid behind a curtain.
It fascinates me that the Scarecrow, the Tinman, and the Lion all believed they would be rewarded with their perfect prize at the end of a long journey. But what actually happened was that they acquired them along the way. The Scarecrow devised strategies that kept them safe. The Tinman made sacrifices born of deep love. The Cowardly Lion found courage because his friends were in danger.
Sometimes I ache for attributes like compassion, or trust. I cling to the notion that they will be handed to me as a trophy for showing up. But what seems to be transpiring is that I find myself in circumstances that demand empathy, or hope. When my kids are hurting, I reach out. If the world seems to be on the brink of catastrophe, I pray.
Twenty years ago I made a quilt of the story. There is a field of poppies, and a tornado, ruby slippers and Glinda. It even has a puddle on the back, with the witch's hat. It is showing signs of wear, since my kids have long cuddled under it.
Some of the things I have feared are showing signs of wear as well. Other people's judgments, cackling inner voices, even weather events have their caps. Being on the other side of sixty, I wonder how many scenes comprise my life's movie. But I believe with all that is in me that when the credits start rolling I will be home.
