Yet another random assignment for my writing class.
Spoiler – it’s about… ***rubber bands!***:
I’m searching for something. I don’t know what it is. I don’t know where I’ll find it. I don’t even know how to find it. I just don’t know. Sometimes I will unconsciously go to the junk drawer when I’m looking for anything at all. I’m looking for a book that won’t even fit in the drawer, yet I still gravitate toward the drawer. I’m looking for my cat. How would he even get in there? Something inside the drawer is calling me to reevaluate and redefine my quest. I am hesitant to open the drawer itself. Is it worth it? What if what I think I want or need isn’t even in there? But I discard my hesitation and pull open the drawer – sometimes with ease, sometimes with a struggle, sometimes carefully, and sometimes in a hurry.
Inside, the drawer is a refuge. It’s a treasure chest of haphazard miscellany. It’s a delightfully unexpected estate sale bargain you happen upon randomly one late Sunday afternoon. Despite all of these, there is one consistency.
I can always find a rubber band in there.
Sometimes the rubber band is buried beneath an assorted plethora of other small and seemingly helpful, yet ultimately insignificant objects. Sometimes it’s caught in the corner and stubbornly refuses to even consider coming to my aid. And sometimes it’s right on top – front and center and eager to spring to assistance. I swear they’re inside stretching and shoving and jumping and rearranging themselves whenever the drawer is abandoned and shut up tight.
Sometimes the rubber band is new and springy, full of excited exuberance. Sometimes it’s old and brittle and reluctant to leave the comfortable sameness of the drawer. And most often, the rubber band is somewhere between these two extremes. Thin, but resilient and durable. Or thick and tough, but somewhat lacking in its supple elasticity.
Their appearance is rarely a direct reflection of their usefulness, but then appearances rarely are. Big, thick rubber bands have their uses. So do tiny, slender ones. And every combination in between has the potential to facilitate some sort of discovery or creative solution. Despite their visible stains, or the fact that they have already been used tenfold, they endure in their obliging and practical support. If I select the wrong one for the task at hand, they will quickly let me know. And there is always a backup rubber band – a patiently waiting friend ready to help me try again or look at my problem from a different perspective.
I don’t know how they get in there. I can never distinctly remember putting a rubber band in the drawer. They just appear. They seem to know that I will need them someday. I will need their versatile durability and their flexible strength. I will need their constancy and keen enthusiasm. I will need a rubber band.
You never know when you’ll need them, but they’re always there. Watching and waiting- inconspicuous in the dark, yet consistently inspiring in their own, faithful and uncomplaining way.