And I've decided it wasn't all of a sudden. It wasn't November 8, 2016 and it wasn't 6 months ago or 3 days ago. The conditions for shock waves slowly take hold in unseen spaces as we blindly live lives we think we know, are sure of, will always be. We think we've done the work of feminism, of democracy, of equality, of community-building, of relationships, of personal growth, of spiritual awakening, of health, of contentment...then suddenly the tectonic plates that have been inexorably shifting out of sight reach the point of no return and an earthquake erupts. If you survive, there's a big mess to clean up.
Today I let a huge number of my beloved books go. Why hang on to old memories, when those times are gone? Why assume I'll eventually read a book I never pick up to read? Why assume I'll suddenly tackle a project I never prioritize? Why continue to maintain a shelf of memories, forgotten dreams, and good intentions? Even the well-read books seemed to sit there inert and dead in a way, no longer held in my hands, fingers giddily flipping pages of an engrossing story, hoping it never ends. Everything ends. Then the closed book taunts me to try to recreate that first blush of joy that can never be regained by merely keeping it around, its cover a reminder of the past. Into the donation box. Letting go of what was and what I thought might be there again.
I know many people my age who are doing the downsizing dance; selling their big homes and gardens and responsibilities and moving to smaller houses, apartments, condos. They are neck deep in clearing out decades of "clutter" -- some junk and some beloved. I admire their ability to cry through the hard parts and still to let things go. I remain in my house, which I love, and I wander through my gardens, still finding pleasure there. I don't want to leave here yet. Still, it's time to let so much of what has accumulated here go. There's really no need for most of what's jammed on closet shelves, infrequently or never used, shuttered in the dark. There's no need to try to predict what I might need someday. Predictions are a fool's errand. Do I need it now? No? Gone.
Hardest for me is ridding the house of me. I'm the family documentarian. I keep bins of photographs and the computer hard drive full of even more; old journals, clippings of published pieces, poetry, essays, writing workshop first drafts; blog books I've created from these postings; mementos; cards I've received from loved ones with handwritten notes -- but, why hang onto to all that? I think for me it is the fear of being forgotten. If those things go away, so will I. No one will know who I was or what was important to me or what brought me joy or sorrow, how I moved in the world, interpreting it and acting upon it.
How egotistical does that sound? The quest for immortality? The reality, of course, is that within three generations we are forgotten; my great-grandchildren won't have a clue who I was, nor care all that much. One day all that stuff will be for someone else to discard, without a thought. Well, maybe I'll leave it to them to do. I'm not ready, today, to be disappeared.
But I am ready to let go of the things that no longer serve me: the physical "stuff" that grows moldy with neglect; the psychic "stuff" that haunts the mind; the precious "stuff" that breaks the heart. There's a big mess to clean up.
At least, that's the view from here...©
Photo Credit: www.pixabay.com
