Yesterday, I opened a closet door to stow our income tax records. But first, a few forgotten boxes tumbled out, landing on my toes. They’ve been there for decades, quietly gathering dust.
Forgotten in my busy, busy work, then retired life.
After I kicked the boxes from my toes, I opened one. Inside were reminders of different seasons of life. Creative projects saved with good intentions. Something set aside to be repaired “someday.” Cards from people once close. Tickets from moments that mattered. An object kept not for its usefulness, but for the memory attached to it.
Sort of a 3-D scrapbook, if you will.
Each item has a reason for being there, although it may be forgotten now. Each tells a story about who someone once was – me. Adventures and episodes. People, places, and things. Times gone by, never to be reclaimed.
As I sit, surrounded by all the detritus, an uncomfortable realization arises: what’s being held onto is the weight of these things, not their joy.
Truths surface to deride me. Some things will never be repaired. Most memories don’t need physical proof. These items aren’t preserving the past; they’re just taking up space.
So the sorting begins. Keep. Maybe. Let go.
That last pile grows faster than expected. And with every item added to it, something inside me shifts. Not because the objects are heavy, but because the obligation to keep them was.
By the end of the day, the space looks different. The air feels lighter – like me.
What’s surprising is what isn’t felt… no regret, no longing. Instead, there’s simplicity and ease. Easier to open the door without bracing for things to fall.
This isn’t just about closets. Everyone carries things longer than necessary. Old expectations. Grief. Guilt. Promises made to past selves who no longer exist. The quiet belief that letting go means giving up on something important.
But maybe clearing space isn’t about loss at all. Maybe it’s about making room for what matters now.
It’s a rite of spring… which occurred a month ago.
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