Musing: Eskimos, Igloos, & Independence Day

Why, why, why is it that on Independence Day I'm thinking about love? Perhaps it's the dreary weather, reminding me of, oh, I don't know, anything the Bronte sisters would write. Bad weather brings out the romantic in me, what can I say. All I know is that I'm not thinking of how happy I am to be American.

Last night, I dreamed about Eskimos and their homes made of ice. In my dream, I built one, and then in Spring, when I heard the first drop drop drops of the melting ice tap my dark suede boots, I cried. Not necessarily because my boots would soon become completely madefied, but because the walls in which I had lived and loved for so long would soon melt away into a blinding and bloodless snow. There would be no mark of where I had stayed, and no tangible memories. Years later, I would not be able to return to my home, look at a particularly shiny pane of a window and say, "Ah yes, that's from the time when a baseball went through the window." My memories of that home would be about as solid and permanent as its foundation come summertime, slowly being evaporated by the frigid sun.

I recall being frightened in my dream, but I realized soon that this was just something I simply had to accept. The notion of "home" and its effect on the individual has been prominent throughout man's existence, therefore its opposite, the lack of a home, has been protuberant as well. Yet, for thousands of years, the Eskimos continued to build their homes made of frozen water only to be left drenched and cold in its wraith like remnants come springtime.

End of the dream. It left me wondering, then, why? Why spend hours upon hours building something so finite? Why risk the hypothermia, the runny noses, the red cheeks and numb fingertips on something that just won't last? It all seemed rather futile to me.

And then it occurred to me, they do it just because. Because that's what their parents have done, that's what their parents before them have done, and so on and so forth. Because that's who they are. The Eskimos are fully aware of the fact that their beloved homes will turn to a transparent puddle, and eventually return to the sky, but they do it anyway.

I feel like that's a lot like love, really. We know that it doesn't last in its most ideal form, obviously, but we get so caught up in its eventual disintegration that we lose sight of it in its most solid state, no matter how transparent it may appear. Some are so weary of seeing their sad reflection in those cold and inevitable pools that they don't bother with love to begin with. No one wants to be left feeling numb.

But for me, I'm more afraid of forgetting, and of having my warm memories snatched into the sky, leaving me shivering without a sign of shelter. I begin to resent time and how it melts away at everything I treasure. And then I realize that it's all elemental and cyclical. Love may melt, condense, and evaporate, becoming indiscernible amongst the world around us, but that's only because it is all around us, and always will be. The Eskimos continue to make their homes made of ice without fear, because they know they can never truly lose them, for water cannot be destroyed. Funny how we view them as silly, even though their homes are made of material that transcends a definite shape and form.

They build, block by block, until they are absolutely numb. They build some more until their diamond is complete. It stands strong for some time, shining brilliantly, but eventually begins to lose its lustre, fading slowly into the snowy earth. But they are not afraid, for the puddle still sparkles as brightly as the house once did. And at night, when the puddle no longer remains, they look to the sky, and see the stars shining like jewels in the inky night, much like the puddle did, and much like their home, though faint, once did. And then the snow begins to trickle down like a string of broken pearls from the starry sky, and they are ready to build a home once more.