My parents were married for 71 years and led a wonderful happy life together. They were surrounded by warm friends, their children and grandchildren. When one lives so long with each other, it becomes difficult to survive without each other and they both departed this earth within 5 months.
Last few months I have spent trying to wrap up their belongings and assets. The every little object that fills the nook and corner of their small home. Its amazing how much stuff is there. Each of these stuff hold stories of a life. Some I know, most I don’t. It spoke of their lives, their interests, their activities and hobbies, their feelings, their habits, the places they have been and also places they wish they hadn’t been. Little little worn out, rusted and broken pieces of artifacts, which lets face it, their children and grandchildren would not want to keep.
Sorting through piles and piles … some to be donated to those who can use it, some which can be preserved, some which can be digitized (not sure who will see them though unless the context and stories are shared along with it), some which just have to be taken out as trash. Yes, it’s a cruel word.
It is unbelievable how many cartloads of trash I have taken out in phases. How much money I spent to those who carried the trash to the dumpster. To watch them go to the dumpster is strange feeling, part heavy – part relieved … those things that stayed in the house for decades. Even if it was no longer serving any purpose.
All our lives we collect possessions, accumulate assets, we hold physical objects as memories and pride.
It brings to mind Margaret Atwood’s poem, The Moment.
The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,
is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can’t breathe.
No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.
The caretakers who were helping me sort through things told me how my mother told them that I will throw it all away. Maybe it pained her to think about it. It pained me too, I wondered, remembered, tried to recollect in some cases, surprised to find some things, amused at some, disgusted at others. But at the end of the day, it is for me to help clean it all up. It is a burden I need to carry.
But what I hold dear to my heart are : the moments sitting all alone, when I gave the nurses a break, in the room with my mother, with her machines whining and purring, her breathing labored, her eyes closed but her knowing that I was right there. The moments when each night I held my fathers hand and kissed his forehead telling him that he was loved not knowing if he will make it through that night and he waved at me cheerily as I left the ward.
Death is certain and is the ultimate truth. We will all die, some sooner some later. I am inspired by the Swedish art of Death Cleaning , also a book written by Margareta Margusson. It urges you to keep de-cluttering as you age, so that you leave behind minimal possessions. You spare others the pain of dealing with your clutter, you also honour and hold the memories that lies in the clutter. You worry less about leaving behind traces, the urge not to be erased.
I look forward to living the rest of my finite time being present with all those dear to me, to talk, laugh, cry, travel, eat and drink with all those who matter. To make a difference to some. To help some in the ways I can. To leave behind a kinder world, a restored earth and happier souls. So if you hear me call you out for a drama or a coffee or a moment at the beach, join me and we can celebrate life as long as we have it.
Meandering Dialogues 