I recycle cardboard at my brother’s violin shop in Amherst Center. (I volunteer: this has not been my life’s work!) Perhaps that’s what got me thinking about boxes, though, truth be told, I’ve had boxes on the brain for many years.
In my former life as an elementary classroom teacher, my colleagues would often tell me that I was someone who “thinks outside of the box.” I took this as some sort of compliment, though I never knew what box they were referring to: the “Curriculum Box,” constructed and handed down by “experts” in various fields? The “expectations box,” created mainly by parents wanting the best for their children? Boxes filled to the brim with how-to’s, taught in graduate schools of education?
As is true of containers holding violins, cellos, and upright basses, boxes in our lives come in many sizes. By far the largest box in my life contains my family identities — father, husband, grandfather, son, brother, uncle, brother-in-law, cousin. I seem to have constructed a few dividers inside this box, some more porous than others, to help remind me, I suppose, of my specific roles and responsibilities in my wonderful family. Now I’m wondering if those dividers are even necessary. Family is family, pure and simple.
I have two other boxes of significant and somewhat equal sizes, one called “Teacher,” the other “Singer-Songwriter.” Over the decades, I have shared the contents of one or the other of these boxes with thousands of people. In the classroom, the two boxes were sometimes opened simultaneously when I sang and wrote songs with students. These boxes are quite sturdy and have withstood the tests of time.
I also possess, of course, many medium and small-sized boxes, ones labeled “Community Member,” “Friend,” “Patient,” “Board Member,” “Golfer,” “Neighbor,” “Customer.” The contents of these sometimes intermix, but usually not in any meaningful way. Interestingly, I often open these containers while the other three, larger ones are sealed tight. Most of these boxes are kept in separate compartments, far removed from the more important ones.
Which brings me to my main point (I knew you were waiting and wondering!) …
None of us is ever “outside the box,” because once we close one box we immediately open another. We humans are shape-changers, adept at delivering the right package to the right destination. As a patient, I allow my doctor limited access to my “Family” box and no access at all to the one entitled “Singer-Songwriter.” In stores or service stations, I use only the contents of my tiny “Customer” container to suit my specific purpose.
You might question the premise that we are always in a box of some sort. I still question this myself. When I’m watching television, reading, or doing yoga, aren’t I simply “being myself?” Haven’t I placed my boxes safely in their assigned spots, not forgotten, always at-the-ready, but, for a while, unused? Honestly, I’m not sure, but I think my confusion has to do with time.
“Time,” of course, is the box to end all boxes. It’s large enough to hold all 7.98 billion of us (as of 9/30/22) and all of our individual boxes! That’s one giant container, all right, and most of us know of only one (unappealing) way to get out of it. I say “most” because there are a select and chosen few, I believe, who live outside of all boxes, including the Big Daddy of them all. Mystics, lamas, and shamans seem to have discarded (recycled?) theirs, embracing “The Whole fully, without pretense or doubt. These are the enlightened few among us.
But having no doubt? No boxes? That sounds too scary to me. And a little boring. As it turns out, I like my boxes. When I’m with my grandkids, I love dipping into that family compartment and being, simply, Papa. I love the role of uncle or brother, teacher or performer, friend or golfing buddy.
“Boxes are for objects, not humans,” says Indian neurophysicist Abhijit Naskar.
I couldn’t agree less.
Gene Stamell’s boxes can be accessed at gstamell@gmail.com. He houses them in Leverett.