As I pulled an empty dresser to the curb, along with unused shelves and a forgotten child-size art easel a deep sadness came over me. I am not attached to those items, or much of anything in my home – save stacks of journals, artwork I’ve collected, and the photographs chronicling my child’s life. The idea of sending almost everything onward is a relief, but the physical act of discarding items is psychologically hard. In their place sits an open space, a blank wall, a future of greater simplicity.
Over the last few months, I have been percolating on selling the home I’ve lived in for almost three years. By selling, I’d pay off all debt and create a nest egg for my daughter’s future. I’d let go of excessive space that I don’t use. Two rooms in my home went untouched for months, I leased out the space rather than let it sit barren. I don’t take up space with things. I have tried – the image of a cozy home filled with memories seems comforting. But the reality, things make me itch and feel overwhelmed. I want experiences and stories, not souvenirs made in China collecting dust. I want time.
I crave time. Time for me. Time to be outdoors, to know my child, to think, to travel, to spend with a future lover, to write, to simply be. I want to be released of the burden of more things that need my attention. But in the wave of letting things go, of resetting, there is a return of grief, dare I say, depression for the abyss of time that will allow me to be alone with myself.
In the last few years, I’ve worked so hard to understand me, what drives me, what I need / want in a partner. I have worked to break down walls and open my heart. I have worked to heal old wounds. I have learned to set boundaries. I have been challenged by new experiences and lovers. I have been tested to come to terms with the work I still must do. On occasion, I feel like I am making great progress. But that progress is simply another layer understood and life rips off layer after layer to reveal more work awaits my attention.
I had to stop cleaning because my mind / heart was racing with overstimulation, confusion. I stopped cleaning to write. In writing I find peace. In writing I work out confusion. As I began to write, more sadness wash over me. I typed through tears.
I am stripping away the nonsense of life. The acquisitions and trinkets discarded. A new wall sits bare and I am reflected back to me. I’m not sure how to say hello.