I’ve had occasion in the last couple of months to interact with people I haven’t seen in literally decades - my first husband’s family, at his sister’s memorial, and the man I was with when I hit bottom, and friends from that time period. I was shocked at how old these people are. In my mind, they’ve existed in some parallel universe of disco balls and barbecues, bell-bottoms and summer days. My mom used to say that she felt the same inside as she always had, so was often surprised to see her older self looking back at her in the mirror. I felt the same with these recent contacts. I still look out at the world through eyes that are alternately 14 or 26 or 32, so seeing all these old folks has been an uncomfortable reality check. 

Apparently, time marches on, and if the next 30 years go as quickly as the last, this gig will be over before I know it. This gig will be over before I’ve finally cleaned out that closet, traveled to India, hiked the Olympic Peninsula, written the second book I’ve been procrastinating on... I don’t have much of a bucket list, but there are a few things I keep in the “someday” column. When, exactly, is “someday” when one is in their 60’s?  

Speaking of closets, I had the final round of a carpet re-do installed this week, which meant a weekend of moving furniture, as well as boxes and other detritus from two closets. Deep exhale... I had moments of overwhelm with the volume of stuff - tissue paper, empty boxes (for those someday gifts), needlepoint (which I don’t do), purses I haven't used for years, etc, etc. I am my Depression-era mother’s daughter, and some of the stuff I hang on to was hers. An illustrated article in the Sunday New York Times (by Rebecca Soffer and Gabrielle Birkner)) called "How to Speak Grief”  describes "Clutterstock - The inability to remove dead loved ones' seemingly meaningless items for fear they might later prove to be surprisingly irreplaceable."  Exactly. When my mother first passed, I couldn’t bring myself to throw away anything - I still have the last crossword puzzle she worked, just like she’d done every day for eons, though through an opiate haze, this one is nearly illegible. But it’s her writing. She wrote it. And soon, it will need to go away. Maybe in a ceremony - a fire pit in the backyard at the spring equinox perhaps -  something more meaningful than just tossing it in the recycle. And, as I restock my closets, I will apply disciplined discernment - do I really need this whatever-it-is? Really? Yes, I travel. No, I don't need 47 clear plastic bags. Again, deep exhale.

Recovery seems to be an on-going series of challenges to identify, then discard, what no longer works in my life. Old ideas, old behaviors (which aren’t old if I'm still doing them), old beliefs. As I dispose of material goods that no longer serve me, might I also inventory what else I'm holding on to that it is time to release? Some fantasy that former friends and lovers haven’t changed, haven’t evolved in their own way, just as I have, perhaps? The persistent belief that “someday” is somewhere in the future, a future that, in actuality is shrinking with every passing day?  

I can give thanks for old friends. I can fondly recall the excitement of purchasing a lovely shoulder bag on my first trip to Florence, Italy. I can acknowledge and honor all that has brought me to right here, today - people, places and things that had deep meaning once, but are now merely history. I can suit up, and show up today in ways that create memories for that someday that is just around the corner.

What from your past speaks to you? How do you acknowledge, and then release the memories?