I found myself in the attic today, knowing full well that much of the rest of my 100 Day challenge of letting go of past shite would be found in that space where my entire life is packed into boxes and bins neglectfully carelessly stacked everywhere. I didn’t have cold feet but I did have cold toes when I went up. Returned downstairs with them still cold, so the temperature is finally bearable up there.

I spent an hour laying my hands on the chaos that I’ve created from years of drop and run. I created a giveaway pile at the top of the steps. I cleared pathways and moved rugs as to not trip and fall into the stairwell abyss. I stacked all the empty bins, filled one with all the packing papers, and picked up bits and fallen florals up off the floor.

What struck me as I touched, moved, and peeked into these boxes, is how all of my lives are represented in that place. It is the realm of all of my “shadow people” who live within me. Yet, these physical reminders of them are almost unnerving. And I realized that this is the exact opportunity for me to take a look and decide what memories from these lives I want to take with me from this place (physically and metaphorically) forward. An Archaeological Dig to Find Myself on Shalavee.com

I desperately wanted to be an archaeologist from 4th grade until 11th grade. I subscribed to National Geographics’ kid’s magazine World and poured over the hieroglyphics’ keys.  Here in my attic, I now was excavating my own life, one which I have so thoughtfully and thoroughly left evidenced for myself in all of these bins and boxes. Sigh. Trying to think of it as a gift to be able to carefully consider the stories that go along with the objects and decide whether or not they need to be honored or released.

Perhaps it’s an archaeological dig to remember who I am other than boss of Momtown. Or it’s a way of honoring my childhood as I had promised my long-ago therapist I would by going through the toppling tower of childhood in paper boxes. There within lie some wounds and sadness that may or may not ask to be mourned.

And then I found my box of 64 crayons, organized in a meticulous color alphabet only I could understand at age 9. But then I found my kaleidoscope in the bottom of its original gold box drawn in with my favorite color combo of pink and blue. I gasped and almost cried. And that barcode label was from my word processor bought for me by my grandmother at JC Penney’s in 1994. My first typewriter!An Archaeological Dig to Find Myself on Shalavee.com

I was struck by an idea then. Why can’t I create a keepsakes box for myself just like I’ve made for my children? These two items still have a home in my heart that I want to honor. The cards, the pictures, the notebook of notes from high school. My 8th grade graduation dress. My favorite Broom Hilda and Chitty Chitty Bang Bang coloring books. In honoring my childhood and my inner child’s dearness, I can perhaps let go of some emotional baggage?

But then I found a bag containing my Raggedy Anns and Andys…plural. 

There’s still a lot to let go of and, if I play my giving away of Shite cards correctly, I’ll have then done at least a pretty good first household purge. #100daysoflettinggoofpastshite 


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