Ask anyone in my family and they’ll tell you: there’s nothing I love better than a miniature. Doll houses, especially. The tiny plates and chairs. Little beds and pillows. Small parcels of foodstuffs. I had my vintage Little People and Pet Shop and Polly Pockets ready and waiting when grandchildren were still babes in arms.
So when I read the editor’s note in last month’s Bookmarks magazine about her love for the Dutch book series Mouse Mansion, I went down the internet rabbit hole trying to find a copy. Author Karina Schaapman built a (you guessed it!) mouse mansion from cardboard boxes and paper mache` and stuffed the rooms with all manner of hand-crafted miniatures. There’s a cellar, kitchen, music room, nursery, playroom, laundry. I was fully prepared to buy a used copy (in Dutch!) on eBay for way too much money when I discovered a Mouse Mansion website in the U.S. which sells the books in English. And then it was “Merry Christmas to me!”
Long ago I went to a journey group at a yoga studio where the facilitator–drumming and dream weaving–guided us to our totem animal. It was a moving experience, but I pushed aside the animal that came to me because I was embarrassed; it was small, timid, meek, and I willed myself to find another. Yes, my Friend, my spirit animal was a mouse. I wanted so badly to discover within an animal like a bear or a mountain lion. Powerful and feared. Everything I felt I wasn’t.
But today I’m much less likely to turn aside that mouse medicine. We might hide in the shadows, but we are always watching, seeing details others don’t. Mouse people follow crumb trails that lead us on new pathways. (Some native peoples call Mouse the Pathfinder.) We gather provisions for lean times, scavenge what others discard, and build a cozy nest. We can make something out of nothing. And, yes, we do appear to be frightened little creatures, but don’t be fooled. Have you ever witnessed the power of a mouse’s destruction to, say, a loaf of bread in the kitchen drawer or a cushion tucked away in the garage? Mouse people, though small, are mighty.
[And have you heard of the Welsh tidy mouse? Caught on camera, this little guy picks up small items left on a shed bench and places them in a box each night. A pest control expert said mice are like “the magpies of the rodent world.” They gather and collect what they might need during tough times.]
And while I’m de-cluttering my own nest, I find myself hoarding all manner of memories. (Could I be preparing for the day I am not able to join the hubbub of daily life as easily?) There’s that stroller parked under the backyard tree. Savory sweet brisket, smoked on the 4th of July. An Easter basket hidden in the living room. A prom dress. That big yellow lab. A shiny cherry wood casket on a frigid February day. The little boy in a choir robe and the girl who loved the silky on her blanket. Backyard tether ball.That first cigarette. Cocktails on the deck. The tick tick of a banjo clock.
I finished Hilary St. John-Mandel’s Station Eleven last week. I do like an occasional dystopian novel, but for some reason had passed over the Mandelverse for the last decade. St. John-Mandel’s world is well-worth your time. The novel gives us a traveling band of actors and musicians who caravan across the Midwest post-civilization. The situation is bleak: small settlements are wary of outsiders, fearing their limited resources might be plundered. Weapons are de rigueur. Murder, not uncommon. While the times might have been dark and violent, people still flock to watch the Traveling Symphony perform Shakespeare and classical music from “before-times.” And I loved that even in this post-apocalyptic world, people held on to things that no longer had any “value”. The Museum of Civilization, the Traveling Symphony’s destination in the novel, displays cell phones, passports, coins, driver’s licenses, and high-heeled shoes. Kirsten carries her tabloids and snow globe. Scavenged shampoo and bath towels from an abandoned house whisper of times almost, but not quite, forgotten. Things sparked memories. And those tucked away memories lit hope when it was most needed.
Last week, my grandkids had a run of snow days. On the day Mom worked, Dad was at home and little sister down with a fever, so it was off to Grammy’s for an afternoon. Jonas and Alexis helped me start building one of my Christmas gifts: a miniature (of course!) book nook scene. We went slowly and carefully, in no rush to finish. Each took a turn building one piece of furniture, and they worked with infinite patience and attention to detail.
Just one more memory to tuck away.
This is my symphony 