Inspiration hit me this week when I put myself to a task I feel is always over my head, held there by me. But it’s also literally above my head in my third-floor attic, the chaos of all chaoses. As I started to move about and clear the pathways from my life’s stranded moments, I battled and won pieces of myself. This is an interior journey as much as an exterior environmental disaster effort. Because that attic is out of control.
And as I began to feel good, like a person who could make choices, I realized that I was somehow punishing myself by not allowing myself to accomplish this.
It seemed shocking to realize that I have been doing the worst to myself by not allowing myself to do the work in the attic. The holding back wasn’t an avoidance, it was a punishment of some sort. Disallowing movement somehow.
As I go through the accumulation of my past decades of stuff, I realize that they all tell their own stories. The childhood corner is where my childhood belongings are stored in printing paper boxes which are now collapsing into themselves in the same pile they were moved here in.
My teen self stuff was snuggled up with my childhood stuff boasting of my musical preferences all over my jean covered notebook formally used to house all my school class passed notes.
My lives in my 20’s and 30’s are strewn around in pictures and cards and memorabilia from decades of friendships and celebrations. Lists of numbers and names from the staff at the Cafe Hon which don’t even have the three-digit state pre-number-code 410 yet. All this rounded out by all the things I ever collected for all the creative projects I meant to do. You know, picture frames, silk flowers and sticks. Gloves, ribbons, linens, and satin tassel tie-backs aka upholstery toys.
This isn’t just an attic clean-up, it’s an archaeological dig to find proof of who I’ve been. Maybe I need to know how I feel about those me’s to decide to either let them go or honor them. Maybe I need to remember who I’ve been to make a better choice. about who I am.
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