A recent colloquy discussion at the Ethical Society of Austin asked us to discuss "What would you save?" in the context of disaster or emergency. Aside from needing a Go Bag, I hadn't given it much thought. My thinking these days is more centered on Letting Go, not merely "decluttering," but detaching myself from the things that, yes, clutter up my space, but also take up needed space in my heart and mind.
One thing I plan to let go of is a plate. It's a pink plate with a rose on it. When I received it as a gift, it was part of a set of four pink plates with various flowers in the center of each. I'm not really a pink person. Rarely is there anything pink in my wardrobe, and I am not drawn to pink objects when fighting my urge to collect knickknacks. I'm not much of a plate person. True, there are several plates around on various book shelves. My mother was a plate person, so I saved a few from her collection(s) that interested me for one reason or another, but no plates hang on my walls nor have I, that I recall, actually purchased a decorative plate for my own pleasure. The thing about this plate is that it holds painful memories. The person who gave it to me has done some damage in my life. I let go of three of the four plates in the set when I moved, realizing that I had no room to display them and little room to store them. The remaining plate sits on a shelf in a display rack. Every time I look at it, I think of how angry the giver would be that the other three plates are not also displayed--if by some remote chance she ever set foot in this house again. I love her. I carry her in my heart. But I think that this object is making me hold onto negative thoughts that won't allow me to heal--or allow for any healing in a broken relationship. I will let go of the plate today.
Another object that I am thinking about letting go of is an ebony carving. This one holds memories of a time in my life when I--pretty much unconsciously--accumulated symbols of motherly love. The carving is a representation of a mother holding an infant, vaguely "Madonna and child." I believe that I bought it to give to my mother, but I don't think that I did. Instead, I kept the "message" ("please love me?") to myself. Now Mama did the best she good. She was significantly handicapped. I have no idea how she managed to carry me to term, but her determination in the things that she really wanted to do was phenomenal. She had suffered so much in her youth that it is unimaginable that she would subject herself to a pregnancy that would lead to a cesarean birth--in the forties. And yet she did. As much as that might have told me about my mother's love, there were a lot of years when she was ill and understandably (to adults) cranky. More directly affecting me was her critical insistence on high standards of behavior, appearance, and achievement. I often felt that I was "no good," certain not "good enough." In the last years of her life, when she had dementia, she often didn't know who I was. Sometimes she thought I was one of her sisters, other times I was an inadequate maid who could be curtly dismissed: "You're dismissed," as she said when some family friends were visiting.
In the ten years since my mother passed away, I have had plenty of time to revisit these moments of pain and doubt. I have also looked through masses of greeting cards and journal entries and letters. Over time, the pain has lessened enough for the joy and delight to come through. Mama was fun. She was brave. She was compassionate. She was beautiful. That may sound vain, when I point out that I glanced in the mirror one day not too long ago, pleased about something or other, and saw my mother smiling back at me. I might have a little too much of my father's nose (bless the Parkers), but I have Mama's smile, which came to me as part of the healing that these past years have brought. Mama did love me; she did the best she could.
I am more or less cleaning and clearing these days (mostly "less" on the cleaning bit), so I picked up the ebony carving to dust and polish it. At that moment, I realized that I had already let go of all of those feelings of insecurity about my relationship with my mother. Then I thought I might let go of the carving. I have a friend who lost her daughter and is going through some hard grief. Could this carving of motherly love help her? I will think about it some more, but I don't think I need the carving any more. I can just smile at the mirror and see Mama smiling back.
One more thing for me to think about is the memorial webpage that honors my late husband. Every year I am asked to pay a fee to renew that webpage. Every year I think about letting it go and decide that I can't do it. I have a link to his memorial site on the address-bar-thingie of my web browser. I often glance at his name there and am comforted by his presence. Now and then I click the link and visit the site. Nothing has changed in all these years, but sometimes I just feel the need to visit. I did that a few weeks ago, rereading the statement that I had written for the site. I was actually surprised to realize that I was reading about an Ethical man. Of course he was! Even though we had never heard of Ethical Culture before, I should have realized that he was exactly the kind of person that we are all striving to be in EC. Not that I'm saying he was perfect, but he certainly practiced the compassionate service that we often attempt in EC. It pleased me to read that statement and come to that realization.
Imagine my shock, checking the site a few days ago, to find it gone. The tenth anniversary of his passing is coming up in November. I expected to be asked to renew the site, and I was thinking that, while it serves no one else, it comforts me. I clicked the link, thinking that I would renew early, just in case my travel plans might make me miss a deadline. The link, instead of taking me to his crinkly smile, goes to a search page for obituaries. I was devastated. Panicked.
Eventually, I found him again. Legacy.com has restructured their website. They apparently did try to notify me with a message that went to the Promotions folder (which I mostly ignore). The information is still available--after much clicking--but it is broken up into multiple parcels rather than all together. Will I be forced to let go of this comfort? The link is still on my address bar with the other important bookmarks--it just doesn't take me to my husband.
I guess we don't have eternal life on the internet either.
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