Stuff
What are the objects in our life? There are moments when we remember that our stuff means nothing, such as when we are jolted into remembering our mortality, or when we are alone and connect with our higher selves. There are times when we become convinced that our happiness is connected to just this one more thing that we think we need, only to discover that it is not connected and we do not need that thing.
But our objects also tell our story.
When B first passed, there were weeks of discovering his wallet on the counter, his reading glasses scattered in each room, his sweatshirt in the laundry, his bookmark holding his page. These were remnants of a life in motion, both a comfort and a dagger. He was once here; he was real. But he is not going to pick that wallet back up, wear that sweatshirt again, or finish that book. It was so hard to wrap my mind around; confusing. I swept these away as I found them.
Every once in awhile I still find these objects - the Christmas presents shoved in a closet that he failed to open last year, or a back pack still filled with B’s life of expectation - tissues, earbuds, gum, bandaids, floss, business cards. When I find them now, I sit with them longer. They can take my breath away; again in both comfort and daggers. Here he was, this benign, solid, hopeful, hardworking presence. Here is the evidence. And yet, no more.
There were also continued expectations. These were groceries on the shelves for B. There were television series started but not finished, house plans made, trips not taken. There is the collection of mugs, totally crazy and miss-match, each one selected by B during a family trip. These are ways to extend B in our lives, because we are still close enough to knowing his thoughts and dreams. The mugs will continue but many others will time out slowly.
I hadn’t touched B’s clothes or office until now. The shirts hung on the hangers, the piles of books and papers sat on his shelves. The drawers were filled with socks and t-shirts. If only this curated set of fabrics could be stitched back together to re-form the giant that once wore them. But, no.
So, I have been going through them piece by piece. We have three piles:
Special specials: Shirts, sweaters, or jammies that were B. These are assembled into a box to have small quilts made from. We will have one for Joyce, Amy, T, T, and me.
Soooo B clothes: This pile includes sweaters, shirts, jackets that are reminiscent of B, that could be worn by a wife, a sister, or a child, or visited by someone looking to connect with B’s memory. I hope to have some items for the kids to connect with when they are older. These are going back into B’s closet. Well, I might have also have started to wear a few of them.
Anyone clothes: These are t-shirts, jackets, shirts, and pants that do not ring B’s name. Some were rarely worn on the bottom of the drawer, some purchased but never worn, some bought to serve a changing body through cancer, some just plain and unidentifiable. These are by far the biggest pile, and these we will give away.
Before now I had avoided this task, scared of the feelings it would invoke, and scared also that I wouldn’t give it enough meaning. Like almost all aspects of grief, this process has been different than I expected. I know that B didn’t want for us to remain stuck, and it feels hopeful to be charting our new path. Category 3 clothes can be used by others. Filtering and right-sizing categories 1 and 2 help us to access memory and also lighten the load.
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Whether a snuggly fleece jacket or wishes to see the Tetons, the breadcrumbs of B will remain with us forever, no matter what tugs and turns our life takes. I feel like I have his full permission to remember him and also to move forward. He was such a healthy human emotionally. He was not worried about his legacy with us; he just trusted us.
I see now that objects are not just things. They represent hope and expectation - they are a belief that we will need to go to work tomorrow, and that we could maybe want to eat this food on Wednesday. Filling a backpack with potentially needed items is an optimistic expectation that there will be another day, which we all know profoundly is not guaranteed. Even writing these very words is an optimistic act - a belief that life will continue, that someone else will read them, and that we will connect and connect again. So here we are - surrounded by optimism every minute with every thought and every single thing we touch. I never saw it that way before.
These are my Sunday morning thoughts on stuff. What are yours?