One often hears about traveling light and how much more ease there is within less than more. I remember reading years ago about the small percentage of one’s wardrobe we actually wear. I most certainly have my favorites, and I recall when my children began dressing themselves, they too gravitated towards what made them feel cozy and comfortable. For Douglas, it was his camo shirt and shorts. Sarah, adored her pink and blue sweat shirt material vest with pants. Unless I slicked them off to the washing machine, that was what she was sporting for the day.
I’ve been listening to people speak of the fires in California, and those lucky enough to be able to go back into their homes, what would they take? What is considered stuff to someone, is a treasure to another, yes? My sister and I experienced this first hand when we moved our elderly mom from Missouri to Utah, to live close by to us. She made it abundantly clear that our sifting and sorting through her treasures was something done most likely upon death, and she really was not pleased.
Decisions were made as she was not well enough to assist us, and later when she was settle we had to field questions about where was her Joy of Cooking, cookbook, mind you, she was no longer creating in the kitchen, yet she wanted to peruse the pages. Then there was a favorite childhood bank of my brother’s who was no longer earth side, she wanted to see as well. Needless, to say we could not present her with these. I’ll never forget the look on her face of grave disappointment and really, disbelief that we so carelessly passed along those items.
I was listening to Glennon Doyle’s podcast, We Can Do Hard Things, and the idea that these tangible items, whatever they may be are considered to be Proof of Life. This has really remained with me, as it’s legacy making and building in a very tangible way. My mentor on my last session with her, encouraged me to be thinking about this. What kind of legacy do I desire to leave? How do I want to be remembered? She encouraged me to continue to write, which I do almost weekly, we discussed the ongoing generational healing of addiction and codependency that is observable, and some perhaps not in my life time, yet hopefully, the seeds have been planted, and a deep root system is being established.
A reminder to mindfully choose another expression rather than, “It’s just stuff,” to anyone in the midst of a traumatic experience. Rather, what has been lost that feels painful to part with might be one way? Or as Amy Lin, who lost her home to a fire in Canada, so poignantly articulated, “I’ll bet you are missing some of your favorite sweaters.” Photos, scrapbooks, a favorite vase, a piece of jewelry. To try not minimize another’s loss is paramount, because we simply cannot know the heart meaning and memories that are infused within certain objects one surrounds themselves with.
I had a season of losing precious items, not to natural disasters, yet simply to life. In a move, not our big one to the island from Utah, yet from one home to another on island, a small urn we had some of Douglas’ ashes stored within vanished. (His main urn and ashes are scattered in Capitol Reef, with his urn tucked into a crevice.) All the items that were surrounding it on my altar were intact, yet not the small urn. I have written about this before, not here, yet oh, did I ever receive lectures about how could I have not had it in my purse, a special spot etc. That is not what I’m asking for now, as I have already berated myself long enough. Douglas understands, and actually teases me about it because I was always tossing everything unless it was bolted down, thus if his small urn found its way to the landfill, at least it’s warm here. (His sentiments, not mine.) Shortly after that occurred, I lost a very special bracelet he had given me that he purchased in Mexico while on vacation. I looked down one day, it was gone. Of course I retraced my steps, called places I had been to see if it had been turned in. Nothing… It made me very sad to no longer have something he especially chose for me, yet I enjoyed all the years that I did wear it, and needed to rest in that place too.
How do we hope and desire to be remembered? For some of us, tangible possessions will be important. For others, it may be in the expressions, the stories we share, the life lessons passed along, the moments shared. I am paying attention to this now more than ever as I enter soon into my seventh decade around the sun. How did that ever happen so quickly? My mentor challenges me to prioritize, to savor with a complete presence what I’m living into daily. No automatic pilot is how I would describe it. Traveling as lightly as I can, heart first, yet to hold as well, that sometimes less is not more for another. Living within the paradox always. Intentional and mindful, I can try to practice remaining cognizant that there are many paths, never just one.
This brought to mind some of my lost items, which brought up the memories attached to them. It gave me a sweet and sad feeling. Gratitude for the memories. Sad that they are memories, and that I don’t think I lived enough in the moment while I was making those memories. Thank you for the reminder to savor with a complete presence. ♥️
Douglas just gets it, he knows what is important. The urn images have affected my heart in a way my head doesn’t understand xx
After doing intense self-discovery for about a year, I delved into Marie Kondo’s methodology for sorting things, based on whether they spark joy. It was life-changing but only once I was ready.
Before that, I spent three years in a walk-in-closet-sized apartment in Japan, where there simply wasn’t room for the unnecessary. Then, when my mom died suddenly a couple of years later, I found myself confronted with the real meaning of possessions, as I sifted through the abundance of clothes, accessories, holiday decorations and home decor she left behind. I only ended up with a precious few objects, but they are precious indeed—not for their worth in gold but for the connection they’ve helped me foster with her.
Being…
Lately, I have been thinking of tackling my piles of journals from years past, thinking do I throw them away but first remove the writing gems? Yesterday I started and became engrossed in my initial entry of my previous journal. My account was lovely, telling where I sat outside describing the outdoor sofa and a potter’s pot I made. I pronounced my loves of the day. I am always happy sitting in the sun in my backyard. The squirrel that stole a honey crisp apple, took a bite, and tossing it angered me. Reading further, I described a squabble I had with my husband. Then I continued writing a post for Substack, talking about the first thing I do In…