The Things We Hold On To
And what we let go of.
Boxes surround me. Some have been in storage since we moved back from Texas ten years ago. Some had been in the basement of my house in Fredericksburg since I moved there in 2003. I’ve had others since I moved from Maryland in 1994. Then there are the boxes I collected when we cleaned my parents’ house over 2 years ago.
Many of the boxes are labeled. Sometimes, the things I wrote read like weird song titles:
- Bookends, teapots, mismatched placemats
- Crazy lady, glass nose, painted wine glasses
- Ball pump, crock pot, dog collars with footprint.
- The cow and Mom’s dishes
Each time I open a box, it’s the same challenge – what to keep vs. what to let go of. I have limited space in my newly remodeled home, and I don’t want to crowd it with too many things. Right now, I love the starkness of blank walls and empty cabinets. Less to keep track of. Less to gather dust. Less to conjure sad memories.
Why did I pack up all this stuff in the first place? Often, it was because I wasn’t ready to make a decision. I wasn’t willing to let go yet.
But now I am.
A writer friend mentioned being ruthless in reducing her word count as she edited her novel. No paragraph or chapter was safe if it didn’t support her story moving forward.
I like that idea. I need to be more ruthless when it comes to editing my possessions. If I can’t think of a time when I last used an object, it’s time to let it go, even if it has sentimental value. Why let it clutter my space? I can take a picture if I want to remember.
Some pieces of furniture have been in my life seemingly forever. The drawing table I got for Christmas in 1978 when I majored in art. The dressing table I refinished when I moved to Maryland after I married my first husband. The piano on which I learned to play when I was eight years old. An antique dry sink that was in my mother’s dining room for as long as I can remember.
Then there’s the jewelry I couldn’t part with until recently. Why did I keep high school and college rings I never wore? Why was I holding on to necklaces and earrings given to me by my first husband? All of these sat in my jewelry box for years. So, I sold them and bought myself a diamond necklace to celebrate my two-year stem cell transplant anniversary. I never take it off.
My sister painted some of the chairs she collected when we cleared our parents’ house. She expressed guilt for doing so because our mother would be furious. Mom didn’t like refinishing furniture. She preferred to allow it to keep its rustic qualities and would only rub the wood with some kind of wax. This made everything from her house feel a bit sticky.
Why am I’m holding on to an end table that had been Mom’s, even though it smells bad? I’ve tried everything to get the musty smell out with no success. Each time I sit next to it, I’m annoyed. Maybe I’ll offer it to one of my siblings.
Mom collected cows. My favorite is the one that has sat on the fireplace mantel for many years. I had to sneak it into my box so my siblings wouldn’t take it. Now, I smile every time I see the cow peeking through the window of Mom’s dry sink.
I got a little creeped out when my sister insisted I take some of Mom’s clothes. I didn’t think I’d wear any of it until the day I put on her white blouse. It fit perfectly, and when I looked in the mirror, my face disappeared and was replaced by my mother’s. Wearing it, I felt weirdly comforted.
When I wear my grandmother’s pearls, I feel her presence. I also have a longer set of pearls that belonged to her sister, my great Auntie Madge. When I their spirits around, I put them on together. It feels good to have them both so close to my heart.
This unpacking got me thinking about everything I’ve been holding on to. I often feel overwhelmed by the immenseness of my collections. In many cases, I’ve let obligation crowd my home.
But it’s time to let go.
I’m now being ruthless about all the art supplies I’ve hung onto. It’s time to let go of materials I haven’t touched in years. Why am I holding on to all those beads, wires, and chains? I haven’t made jewelry since the end of the last century. Now, the arthritis in my hands makes that kind of work impossible. It's time to pass this stuff on to my niece. She’s in art school and could use much of it for her sculpture projects.
Don’t get me started on books. I still have over twenty boxes to go through. Looking at them reminds me of the vast collection my parents held onto. It was a nightmare trying to find places for those. Eventually, many books from their house went to the dump. Fortunately, my local library has a bookstore. It’ll take me a while, but I’ll keep donating until my personal library is down to the essential few I want.
So far, I’ve unpacked over thirty boxes of things. Each time I empty one, I feel lighter. I look forward to the day when I finish this project. I’m committed to only holding on to things I regularly use, need, or desire. No more “I might use it one day.”
Yet I need to remember that it’s not just objects that crowd my mind and fill me with bad feelings. Memories, thoughts, and beliefs are the hardest to let go of.
In my parents’ attic, my brothers found boxes of letters. Some were ones my parents exchanged, and others were from family and friends. One small box contained letters my high school boyfriend had sent me while I was in college. I hope my parents never read these because when I did, I was shocked. They conjured old feelings of hurt and betrayal. The first thing I did when I got home was burn them. Watching those papers being consumed by flames made me feel better.
So, this year, I intend to continue culling my possessions (and hurtful memories, beliefs, and ideas) until I only keep what makes me feel good.
But I’ll never let go of that weird cow who watches me from the dry sink.