A good friend knew I was sorting and pitching things (some back to retirement) while moving back into my office after Phil's death, and she gave me this poem. I know many of you need this, so I'm passing it along.
"When I moved from one house to another there were many things I had no room for. What does one do? I rented a storage space. And filled it. Years passed. Occasionally I went there and looked in, but nothing happened, not a single twinge of the heart. As I grew older the things I cared about grew fewer, but were more important. So one day I undid the lock and called the trash man. He took everything. I felt like the little donkey when his burden is finally lifted. Things! Burn them, burn them! Make a beautiful fire! More room in your heart for love, for the trees! For the birds who own nothing-the reason they can fly."
I know there are several layers of meaning--like holding on to other trash such as regrets, anger, irritations, failures, etc.--but for now I'll just keep it at boxes of paper and photographs and old letters.
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