Open & Let Go
Published on September 2, 2013
Seven years ago Hansel and I were busy carrying all our stuff down a narrow stair case and out onto the front lawn of our home in Cleveland. Almost everything we owned sat vulnerable and exposed on that tiny patch of grass while people stopped their cars and mulled over, picked through, and negotiated selling prices with us.
I even let go of my first electric guitar and made the guy promise me he would take good care of it. I was so attached to that guitar that I almost made him sign a contract that he would.
We let go of furniture, clothes, kitchen appliances that helped us make intimate meals for friends, art supplies, framed photographs, my incredible collection of Virgin Mary statues, and enough books to start a library with.
I think we made close to one thousand dollars–just enough money to actually ship the things we were keeping to Arizona.
For the next couple days we slept on a borrowed air mattress and ate pizza off of paper plates. My home, which then became our home, was empty with only sunshine filling the space.
I remember packing up our teal green Geo Tracker. Strapping our bikes to the back spare tire, putting our two kitties in a large cage, and creating a tent with a towel for Nyla to snuggle under. We had one suitcase full of clothes and another with art supplies. And under the front seat was a tupperware container carrying rolls and rolls of pennies that we used to pay the turnpike tolls the entire way across the US of A.
Oh, and I can’t forget the “Home Sweet Home” magnet I slapped on the back bumper and how religiously we rubbed the Buddha made of jade hanging from the rear view mirror every time we turned the engine on, thanking God in advance for getting us to our destination safely.
This was our first major road trip. This was the first time we left everything behind to start anew. To follow a dream. To be reborn, or something like that.
Seven years ago.
That sounds pretty auspicious to me. Especially now, as I slowly chip away at all the stuff and things and crap-ola that has accumulated since we arrived in the desert with just a few belongings and our beloved animals.
I’ll admit it now. I thought we would come here and grow up. Be adults. Do things that adults are suppose to do. You know, get your life in order, pay your bills on time, own a new couch.
But seven years later, all I want to do is let it all go again.
Get rid of it. Sell it. Donate it. Recycle. Repurpose. Rerun it by the neighbors. I don’t give a damn.
So as you know, that’s what I’ve been doing.
I know the guys names at the Goodwill donation stand and Mr. Craigslist and I are becoming dear friends. Space is starting to creep into our tiny apartment, where once stuff reigned with a heavy hand.
Though it’s not like it was seven years ago.
There’s no friends coming over and offering to help out–or spontaneous moments all dreamy eyed in wondering what my new life will be like.
This is not about setting out on an adventure anymore.
This is about creating a clearing in our path.
Arizona was never meant to be the final destination, but somehow I feel we got here and began to build a dam.
So with each material thing I let go, get rid of, and pass on…this little crack inside me begins to widen.
And the energy that is breaking through, is the energy that I know will carry us on–will lead us to the next shore, the next place to call home, to the next moment where we can begin again.
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