When we moved 4 years ago, I packed and hauled SO much stuff. Only because I thought it was my ‘identity’. These pieces and parts of my past, they had to come along. Perhaps because it is proof that I lived? Parts of my life in the past? I was the keeper of the ‘piece’. But WHO cares about it besides me? As long as my memory holds out, I can remember the things I was involved in. Trivial as they were, they live in my heart.
So now I have the job of cleaning the closets that hold these boxes of past ‘treasures’. Time to let them go.
Up in smoke — before I change my mind! The pages turning, one by one, with the heat of the flame. The snowbank turning sooty around it. I could see the words as they fell. But this time it didn’t hurt. It was time.
Getting older is a time of letting go. As much as I hate the thought, it’s reality. Mourning happens on a lot of different levels. I still mourn things that are gone. But today’s leaving was OK. And as I left the ash pile, fresh snow fell…turning the ground white once more. A nice confirmation.
Why do I struggle so with my identity– when I KNOW whom I belong to?
Please let my heart hold that ONE true thing.
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