Once again I sort through my stuff as if I am dead and I am the one whose task it is to dispose of these non-corpse remains. An onerous task for one left behind. Dull and forbidding at first, yet one that must be done. Accompanying is a hope for unexpected treasure -- a note, a journal entry, a photo. Such sorting must be done meticulously. There is no telling what a scrap of paper might hold. I sigh. Why did he write so much? How can I tell what's junk and what's diamond? Am I saving "his" stuff now so that someone may go through my stuff some day and wonder why I saved this?
I find this alive-me-sorting-through-the-dead-me's-stuff a valuable exercise. Not only do remembrances emerge available for reconciliation and for weaving those threads more fully into the fabric of my being, I also think warmly of those I leave behind and who will have less difficulty sorting through my stuff because it is pre-sorted.
This is a very good thing you're doing.
ReplyDeleteA couple months ago I had to send my parents to the nursing home... and then my mother got pissed and had a stroke which hastened her death from kidney failure.
Their lives had become like the debris field of the Titanic. After four dumpsters of obvious crap, We still hauled four truckloads to my house for sorting. That's a four bedroom house tucked into an already occupied four-bedroom house.
We had the first garage sale last week. We started hauling stuff outside about 6:30 in the morning and continued hauling stuff outside all day and well into Sunday. We were able to temporarily walk through the garage.
Before she died, my mother and I went through her jewelry box. We had a good conversation that went like this:
"What are you doing with a St. Christopher necklace? We're not catholic."
"That was from an old boyfriend."
"Is he still alive?"
"Yes."
"Don't you think it's time to send it back to him and tell him, "It's over"?"
Much love to ya, George.
JN