I’ve been spending my spare time going through my things. Throwing out the old, giving away the still usable and inventorying all the stuff I want to sell… and still knowing that I will eventually have to get rid of all of it. (see here for why)
I love my stuff. Not in the creepy hoarder way, but more in the I love the memories I have accumulated with my stuff kind of way. I look at a picture on the wall and remember a moment I shared with someone special. I look at my favorite meditation chair and cringe remembering waking up one morning to find my best friend, naked, sitting on my chair, working on the computer… it is a visual memory that is seared into my brain.
I reminisce about the shoes that I wore with that outfit to that great event, the sweatshirt that is six sizes to large for me that I stole (from a now ex) boyfriend, on and on. Piece by piece. Memories being given away, donated and sold to the highest bidder….
Memories fading to dust. Which then (logically) makes me think of death. Little deaths replayed over and over again as my beloved reminders (stuff) walks out the door.
Death is difficult at its best, glorious at it’s worst. And here, at this moment…
it is both.