Thinking Back

There's a great moment in the film Throw Momma from the Train where Owen (Danny Devito), a childlike man that lets his mother run his life, shows Larry (Billy Crystal), his creative writing teacher, his coin collection. The collection is comprised of a penny, three nickles, and two quarters.
"Are these coins worth anything?" Larry asks.
"No." Owen replies.
"Then why do you have them?"
"What do you mean?"
"Owen, the purpose of a coin collection is that the coins are worth something."
"Oh, but they are. This one here I got in change when my dad took me to go see Peter, Paul, & Mary. And this one I got in change when I bought a hot dog at the circus. My daddy let me keep the change. He always let me keep the change. This one is my favorite. This is Martin & Lewis at the Hollywood Paladium. Look at that, the way it shines. Little eagle. I love my dad a lot."
"So this whole collection is..."
"Change my daddy let me keep."
The message here, I think, is that you can't take some things at their immediate face value. What appears to be a couple of coins to you is someone else's precious memories and moments. For example, a spent bullet shell on my dresser may just look like that to you, but to me, it is so much more. It is one of the eighteen shots fired to honor the passing of my grandfather, John James Callan, one of the greatest men I've ever met to date. The shell takes me back to that day, surrounded by family, friends, and all of those lives that my grandfather touched. The trumpet playing, the gun shots, the staggered breathing from sobbing incontrollably. I had never known such a sad day before this. Maybe there was some sad days when I was young, but for the most part I think I was blissfully ignornant. Santa Claus doesn't exactly hand out giftwrapped presents and parcels of tragedy, none that you remember anyways. When you're a small child and tragedy befalls your family, your first impulse is to cry. Maybe it hurts more when you're younger, maybe it hurts less, but I can tell you the sorrow I felt was nothing that I had ever felt before. They say tragedy teaches. And I, for one, think it does. It taught me that only when someone is gone can you truly how say great it was. I remember thinking no one can fill those shoes of my grandfather's, but that doesn't mean all attempts at greatness are futile.
Another example, you might see an your average photograph of a sunrise on my desk, but I see a moment where I was completely and most deliriously happy. I sipped on Mountain Dew in my father's ThunderBird with the top down, AC/DC making the stereo bleed, as the sun rose over in the treetops just on the horizon. It was the day after prom. It was a moment of self-discovery.

But what of self-discovery? In the end, is it worth it? Yes and no. It is equally important and unimportant. There are people that live their whole lives without a moment of self-discovery. This isn't wrong, really. Some people just don't need to discover who they are. Self-discovery is just not one event. It's in every step you take, every breathe, each door you open, which road you drive down. They're moments when something hits you hard and sticks. They're really just pennies that you collect on your way through life. Not really adding up to much, but it is always safe to have them. Share your coin collection with those who you hold dear to your heart. Shed a few coins into their share-a-penny box.

So in the end, is it worth it?

There are some questions that don't need to be answered and there are some answers that don't need to be questioned.