I have had to undertake a spot of research for this post. The phrase "the world is my oyster" popped into my head whilst contemplating the accidental breakage of a New Guinean clay pot that was at least fifty years old. "She's finally flipped her lid", I can hear some of you tut tutting. I'll see if I can explain what actually happened in a sea of memories, observations and conclusions that followed the unfortunate demise of the pot.
Needless to say "the world is my oyster" is a misinterpreted Shakespearean quote from "The Merry Wives of Windsor" , a play of which I have no knowledge at all. Being utterly unfamiliar, I consulted Google and am relying on the Readers' Digest version of the plot. The story follows a con man, Falstaff and his unsavoury companions who want to fleece money from a couple of honourable married ladies. having hit hard times. From what I understand, the play descends into a farce of costumes and trickery, with incomprehensible dialogue, young love triumphing and the bad guy being taught a lesson.
Back to "the world is mine oyster". In Shakespearean times, oysters were eaten out of the river and, being notoriously hard to open, a knife or sword had to be utilised in order to gain access to the inside meat. One of Falstaff's "associates" Pistol uses the phrase when the former will not lend him money. There is implied violence that Pistol will take whatever he wishes, with his sword as his weapon of choice.
However, a flip side of the coin is the analogy that an oyster may contain a life-changing pearl, a reward for all our good work. Thus, "the world is mine oyster" has been altered to mean that positives are possible, as long as we keep up the hard slog. Therefore, "the world is your oyster" is one of those patronising phrases that might be churned out as parents farewell their offspring from the bosom of the family. My children were not given such platitudes - they were just informed that Michael and I were moving to Beverley and they were not invited!
And, whilst gazing at the corpse of the clay pot, I pontificated a completely different interpretation. If being inside an oyster with a valuable pearl is meaningful, then maybe leaving the oyster could be viewed as a negative step. After all, if stepping out of one's comfort zone means facing all the uncertainties of the outside world, a vulnerable, a less adventurous or even manipulative person might want to stay where all beliefs and values are unchanging and predicable.
How is everybody coping with that bit of alternate philosophy? But wait, there's more. Surely, I would have been distraught about breaking a pot that had been in the family since the 1970s and I was the last custodian. What I actually experienced was a vague sadness at its loss and the sense that a final chapter had been closed.
The pot had been bought in New Guinea, just after that country's independence, by my darling Dad. As part of his role as a liquidating accountant, he spent the best part of a couple of years flying backwards and forwards to Lei in the Highlands, salvaging the remains of a defunct regional airline. He persuaded Mum to bring me along on one of his trips. I was excited at the thought. Mum was not. I still have no idea why we went. Mum had a bee in her bonnet about security concerns, so she and I sat in a mouldy motel room for several days. On our last evening, we were invited to a BBQ with some other expat families. I ate some less than well cooked pork and by the following morning, I was still pretty unwell. The only commands that Mum dished out was not to behave like I was sick, otherwise we wouldn't have been allowed on the plane .I still have no idea to this day if that was just another of Mum's febrile projections.
Hence, the pot really didn't have many great memories. Over the entirety of her adult years, Mum sat with her pearl, her opinions and beliefs becoming narrower and narrower and her behaviour self-centred and calculated. Dad loved his computer, so Mum sold it. Dad went to yoga on his own; Mum stated she couldn't manage without him. Mum would get into terrible disagreements with neighbours, so we were always on the move. Mum used money as a weapon; Dad was powerless.Mum would play us off one against the other; Dad was incapable of intervening to help us. We endured a chaotic four weeks when Mum decided she and Dad would live in a granny flat on our property. Needless to say, in Mum's eyes, we ended up as the Bad Guys.
Don't get me wrong - this is not a defeatist story. Because of Mum, I have taken my pearl, left my oyster and spread my wings in directions I never would have thought possible. I have met fabulous people whom she would never have approved. I have delightedly accepted hand-me-down clothes she would have rejected. I have shared joyful tales over camp fires or inside pubs with "undesirables". I have discovered to never judge a book by its cover. I am neither thin nor rich - qualities she wholeheartedly followed at the detriment of all around her. Never happy, always frustrated and often mean-spirited, she died alone in her beautiful retirement villa, with Dad having been banished into the low care on-site centre. Which he thoroughly enjoyed for another nine months after her death.
So, the destruction of a clay pot actually had a really interesting conclusion. Dad, wherever he is in the universe, no longer has the pull of a domineering wife. I no longer have a domineering mother. I am living an imperfect life, full of happiness, uncertainty, frustrations, challenges and many wonderful surprises.
Now that was a convoluted tale! Till next time.
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