Solymar is a place dear to all of us. It was a place of rest away from the chaos of the city. Every summer my brother and I would look forward to spending the night at Solymar with Nagyi. We had badminton tournaments and climbed the cherry tree, spending hours eating dusty cherries and spewing seeds at each other. In the evenings we would start a "twilight bark" and wake up all the dogs in the village below. We would pull out the blankets and have long talks under the stars, an occasional bat blocking out the Little Dipper. Nagyi would tell us bedtime stories, "Operenci"s, and tell us to go straight to sleep, which of course never happened. We would awake to the chickens' clucks next door, and the sunshine seeping through the windows, Nagyi making coffee in the kitchen downstairs. Chilly morning breakfasts with the distant hilly mountains illumined by the morning sun. Barefoot in the grass, the daisies would get stuck between our toes as we raced to pick berries and watch the enormous ant nest quiver with excitement at the occasional dropped raspberry. Before leaving, we would always end up soaking each other with the hose, and inciting the anger of Nagyi... Quickly calming into a wet embrace.
Solymar was the subject of countless "favorite place" essays from fourth grade on. It was the place where my brother and I grew so much closer, and began to understand each other. Where we went from being just siblings to best friends.
And this week the ownership will change. The house will be demolished, and the places where we once padded around barefoot, laughing, teasing, and growing will be no more.
As we cleaned out shelves and closets full of memories, we also pulled out an enormous amount of things that no longer seem to matter. My grandma's scrawled college notes from engineering school, or early projects from her days as an engineer. Little notebooks of English lessons written so formally, that most English speakers would only laugh. Old clothes from ages gone by... Too small, too "out of style," with 80s shoulder pads and loud patterns. There were also several rusty irons, old blenders, broken scissors, and things tucked away "just in case" that have long since been forgotten. It was sobering as we started a fire and burned "important documents" from fifty years ago. Once they were to be guarded with all vigilance, but now they were ashes, smoke rising into the withering trees.
I remember several years ago standing in the entry way to Nagyi's house. Outside the door was a big box of papers. I asked my mom what was in it. Her response was "a life in a box." Papers, blueprints, notes, and receipts. All of life's accomplishments in a box.
This felt similar. And I didn't like it. Carrying boxes of things to the dump reminded me of how fleeting life is. That perhaps all of my life's accomplishments really could just fit in a box. And perhaps fifty years down the road, it will only be ash and dust, unnecessary and useless.
Squinting through the smoke toward the soon-to-be demolished house, I once again pondered eternity versus the temporary. So often I allow the temporary things to rule my life, and I allow the stress of the moment to cloud my view of eternity.
But if I invest in people, I invest in the eternal. If I allow the temporary things to get in the way of investing in people, I am creating nothing more than piles of ash and garbage. I keep pondering the idea of storing up treasures in heaven. So often I feel pressured to have nice stuff here. To impress people with the way I look, the things I can show off, or even the experiences I have had. But ultimately these things fade. Wealth fades. Riches fade.
But where your treasure is, there your heart will also be.
