A Lift Off…A Letting Go

(Four-minute read)

I begin this post with some artful wisdom by the poet Mary Oliver:

Storage

When I moved from one house to another
there were many things I had no room
for. What does one do? I rented a storage
space. And filled it. Years passed.
Occasionally I went there and looked in,
but nothing happened, not a single
twinge of the heart.

As I grew older the things I cared
about grew fewer, but were more
important. So one day I undid the lock
and called the trash man. He took
everything.

I felt like the little donkey when
his burden is finally lifted. Things!
Burn them, burn them! Make a beautiful
fire! More room in your heart for love,
for the trees! For the birds who own
nothing–the reason they can fly.

In my last post, about the recent emergence of Magicicada Brood XIV, I suggested that at any moment, we, too, can shed our outgrown “exoskeletons,” flex new wings, and take flight into the next chapter of our lives. For me, this evolution often involves letting go of “things.”

After the launch of my first book, Soul Friend, a couple of weeks ago, packed days gave way to quieter ones. With few appointments or plans, I had a chance to look around at the detritus of my busyness: piles of clutter, including unread books, magazines, and mail, as well as things that crowd my cabinets and drawers.

I began in my office, gathering up papers and uncovering surfaces. But before long, I found myself in the living room, rooting through a drawer filled with table linens. There I spied several tablecloths that fit the formal dining table my children grew up around. The kids are gone and so, more recently, is the table. Into a donation bag they went.

Next, I opened the china cabinet. Sitting side by side were two crystal champagne glasses, clouded with dust. Gazing at them, I recalled an earlier life as a new bride, when the delicate glasses captivated me. With compassion I remembered my youthful certainty, how I thought I knew myself so well, and how, like a mystery novel, my life unfolded in chapters I would never have imagined.

I took the glasses out and washed them till they sparkled. Then I packed each one in bubble wrap and put them in the bag.

Next I explored a dresser drawer, where I found not only three pairs of swim goggles but three once-lovely beaded clutches that had belonged to my mother, now stained and yellowed with age. I saved but one pair of goggles.

Kitchen cabinets yielded mugs, teacups, a vase, an uncooperative salad spinner, and a chopper with a partially broken handle. The basement offered up a never-used luggage set from an estate sale; a tiffany-style lamp that needs a new switch; a comforter set I never liked; and a metal shoe rack.

All of these—and more—I piled into the trunk of my car. I eyed the burgeoning bags for a long moment. Then, without a “single twinge of the heart,” I closed the top.  

Yet, letting go of “things” is often not this easy for me. I sometimes think, “I better not get rid of that; I might write about it someday.”  I’ve also used this foolhardy excuse: “Maybe the kids will want it.” In fact, they never do.  

In truth, the items in my most recent purge are not ones that pose the biggest challenge. For me, it is photographs, letters, cards, and the artful vestiges of my kids’ childhoods—painted handprints, construction paper Valentines, stick drawings, early essays and poems. Oh, such twinges of the heart!

Yet, I’ve been (belatedly) thinning these things too. There will be many more rounds. I am grateful for each “urge to purge” because I know it comes from a new place, a place where I cannot take flight, if I am laden with what must be left behind.