A thing here, a thing there, everywhere things and things and things. I’ve never considered myself a saver of mementos. But, now that I look in my cupboards, I realize I’m just that. A pack rat, just shy of a hoarder. A neat and tidy pack rat, I would add.
The thought goes through my mind of the little turtle. Gets along just fine with his little shell. Not 13 fancy china tea cups, or two sets of silver. Just a shell. Moving from here to there, nothing strapped on the top. No extra baggage. I need to emulate the turtle and begin purging.
There is little chance that the kids, (who are adults), want most of what I find precious and endearing. The significance of most of my memorabilia is not obvious and significant only to VST and me. Deciding the fate of these things I’ve held dear for decades, I’ve decided I need to release them. You can’t hold an angel in a pair of worn bluejeans or a single rose given so long ago.
For the first year of widowhood, a solemn and tearful balloon release occured on the 8th of every month. Each month, the number of balloons increased by one, until 12 biodegradable green and yellow balloons flew away on April 8, 2021. Here I am, saying goodbye to month 13, without some sort of ceremony fitting for the second year. Last night one came to me just before dreams swept me away.
There are some precious things that need a proper goodbye. Since 1987, I’ve saved the clothes worn at our Class Reunion dinner and dance on the night I met VST. His jeans. His shirt. My skirt. My scarf. Taking them out from time to time, I’m whisked back to that night. September 5th, 1987. The late summer California breezes. The lights in the trees. Twinkly stars. My classmates collectively traveling back to 1972-73, when life was simpler for us all. The clothes were worn only then, and saved all these years. To anyone not in the know, they would be a mysterious possession, out of date and for people lean and lanky.
These clothes can’t go to Hanna’s Thrift or, worse, the dump. They can’t be repurposed or worn by someone else. These were the things we wore the night our story started. After a quick photograph, they need a fitting Goodbye.
A couple months ago, I bought a fire pit. Not a gas one, which I bought earlier, but a real fire pit. It will be there that on the 8th of every month, things and things and things will rest until they turn to ash. As the ashes mix with the soils of Winterpast, sweet memories will remain. Releasing these things, my heart will continue to mend with soft Goodbyes. The 8th will be a time to glance back at yesterday, while being grounded in today.
Ceremonies help to heal me from the unthinkable tragedy of cancer. Through ceremonies, I honor the memory of VST and the wonderful life that we shared. I also honor the woman of strength and courage I have become. Weathered and wind blown, life is blooming out of death, rather like a meadow coming to life after a devastating wild fire. Ceremonies help me find peace and comfort my soul.
Don’t get me wrong. There is plenty of stuff that needs to hit the landfill. Half used balls of yarn. Extra fabric that I MIGHT find a use for. Old craft books. Broken tools. This turtle needs to lighten the load, until the final downsize comes my way. A shroud has no pockets, eh?
I’m off to investigate shelves full of things and things and things. More tomorrow.