Let it go

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Let it go, let it GO!!!! For copyright reasons I can’t feature a picture of a certain white haired heroine at this point, but I can guarantee she is currently belting out a certain catchy anthem inside your head. So sorry.

Today I am pondering why, the best part of a year after starting this blog,  my house is still filled to the brim with all the clutter I resolved to clear away. Why can’t I just Let It Go? Let me see…

  1. Toys. My children are in their twenties now. They’ve moved on from Sylvanian Families, cuddly animals and the endless pieces of plastic nonsense they once coveted every birthday… but I haven’t. OK, I don’t feel any particular attachment to the Matchbox cars or DS games, but how can I say goodbye to the toys we gave names? The ones who shared our triumphs and disasters? They are like members of my family. I’m coming to terms with my daughter leaving home, but can’t let go of the cuddlies whose lumpy shapes betray their loyalty to the little girl who once loved them so very much.
  2. Art. Well, my children’s art. I’m starting to see a pattern here. The smudgy hand prints, the huge-headed portraits of family members, the once-upon-a-time stories in such careful handwriting… the evolution of their world view, laid out on paper. In the attic, there are still some of my own drawings; aged seven, when bunny rabbits still wore fancy hats and had afternoon tea with endless cream buns. Are these my children’s inheritance?
  3. Photos. In those pre-digital camera days, I amassed hundreds (nay thousands?) of photos of (you guessed it) my growing family. Ten albums full, then shoe boxes of loose pics waiting to be albumed-up. I know I should cull these, or scan them, or reduce them to a carefully selected album for each of my offspring. But it’s such a gargantuan task.
  4. Calendars & diaries going back years, which I’ll be needing when I label all those loose photos. Was that holiday in Folkestone or Felixstowe? Just dig out the appointment diary from 1994 to find out!
  5. WordsI used to write lots. It kept me sane, scribbling oddments in exercise books. Journals, daily pages, stream of consciousness, ideas for books, short stories… it’s all stashed in a big metal box & I never want it read by anyone else. I’m not sure I want to read any of it either, as it’ll only stir up sleeping demons. But I can’t just shred it. I need to look at it all one last time before I Let It Go. I’m just waiting for the right moment <looks down at shoes>

    I could go on, but I think you’ve got the picture. So much stuff to clear out, but every day I’m finding excuses. The truth is, I’m too attached to these things to see them clearly. I’ve given each of these fluffy toys, scraps of paper & unlabelled photos an emotional value. Which makes it an even greater wrench to clear this stuff from my house. Maybe recognising the problem is the first step.

    And every long journey starts with a single step…

 

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