I finally watched Downton Abbey. I resisted for a while, mostly because everyone in my house has been talking about it, and what everyone generally loves, I am generally reserved on.
It’s bad. I mean, the show itself is really good. I’m not a movie person, but mini-series get to me. I get sucked in.
I nerd out about storylines, if you want the truth. A movie doesn’t take any time to develop the story. People meet and fall in love overnight, literally. Then they kiss, face a major crisis and live happily ever after in an hour and a half. Cue the epic music. And sunset scene. Roll credits. Game over.
Mini-series are different.
Everything is drawn out and complicated and intricate. There are plot twists, and then, the unexpected happens. And it lasts for several seasons. It’s like a good book series, always drawing you in.
(Actually, TV series are just the latest incarnation of the serial novel, which were originally published in newspapers. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle created his Sherlock Holmes stories as a serial novel. This fun fact of the day brought to you by your very own Honors Seminar dropout.)
Anyway, there’s a lot tied up in why I like mini-series (and even some TV shows) above movies. I like things that last, things I can see the longevity of, things that take time.
I like letters because they take more out of us than emails. I’d rather make a meal than get fast food.
I like gardens that are well cared for and bloom year after year. I like handmade things made by little kids with unsteady fingers.
I would like to build the house I’ll call my home.
I like things that have lasted, things that can withstand the test of time. There will always be something more lovely to me about the parapets of Neuschwanstein than the tops of the Disney castle for just this reason.
At the heart of all this is the love of story. Because these letters, meals, parapets and gardens tell stories about time and how it is the currency of our hearts. The things that last are the things that are built–brick by brick–and planted–seed by seed–and then tended–day by day.
And I like these things because they cost me something to invest in. If I pay the price, then it is worth something to me. It’s worth is only equal to what I am willing to pay for it.
There are some things in this life that take time to develop, things that are worth keeping sacred for the right moment. Things that will be more lovely if I pay the price of waiting and watching and sowing into it, even when I am uncomfortable and lonely and hopeful all at once.
Because anything worth everything will always cost us something.
And this time, I’m willing to pay big time for it.