cleaning out
After the lunar eclipse, I gathered all of my luggage in my closet, found ten trash bags and started to pack all of my belongings. There were items in my closet that I hadn’t worn since college. I had trinkets that I collected from past relationships, holding onto their fragility and imperfections. I tossed shoes so worn down that I paused and recounted all the steps I took in them. I stripped down my shelves, removed pictures and thirteen-year old clay molds from classes I took in New York, and found postcards with sweet notes from dear friends. When I finished and witnessed my bedroom naked with no proof of life lived or love made, I settled in my reality that while this will be my first home; it will not be my last.
I bought my home at 27 years old. I never celebrated the milestone. I remember paying the down payment and returning to work the same day. The thought of making a purchase this big scared me into silence and I thought I would fail or lose the home. Looking back on eight years of home ownership, I understand the magnitude of what I achieved being so young, so broke, an entrepreneur, and working odd jobs to make ends meet.
I have sowed into my home little by little. From Goodwill purchases, refurbished pieces, my grandmother's custom pillows, doing the handiwork myself, painting cabinets, installing sinks, and new toilet covers. I pushed past my comfort zone and created a beautiful home self-financed without any support.
transitions
All of my major transitions tend to happen in spring. A few weeks ago, I was on a call with an insurance agent, an attempt to lower my car insurance. She so gracefully said that my price was the price it was because of my driving record. I asked sincerely, “Please explain?” She said, “Well…in April 2019, you totaled your car. In March 2022, you failed to stop at a stop sign…” She outlined all the reasons why I am technically not the best driver on the road. While I admitted to all the things she outlined and nodded in agreement, I took it as an opportunity to look back at those moments when I was not fully present on the road.
Those years were seasons of transition for me. I nearly lost my company in 2019. In 2022, I was contemplating a move across the country. Transitions for me were a prerequisite to sit in fear instead of moving past it. By doing so, it compromised my growth and stunted my ability to welcome ease in the midst of change.
I am rewriting my relationship with transitions as an opportunity to give into the unknown, knowing that I won’t have answers, and understanding that my intuition will always be a guiding compass.
making space
Cleaning out is just a way to make space for bigger and better things. I am moving out of my home on April 30. I will be welcoming renters and visitors to frequent my home while I create a new space in the heart of midtown. I am taking none of my belongings with me. I am leaving the furniture behind, weathered decor, a slept-in bed, a custom bed frame made out of palettes, and all of the blue walls for someone else to experience.
As my closets empty, books begin to occupy boxes and all of my personal memories begin to pile up in the corner of my house. I have a renewed sense of appreciation for the time spent, lessons learned and family gathered in this quaint space.
The act of cleaning out forced me to look back and realize that it’s okay to close chapters. That moving on requires letting go and holding on keeps you stagnant. I am learning that in this season of transition the impermanence of things.
impermanence of things
I visit my grandmother last Saturday. She is under full surveillance at my uncle’s house. There are family members that rotate and assist my uncle with my grandmother’s care. When I walk in, I see her curled up on the edge of a bed that’s low to the ground. She has a pillow tucked over her head and covers her body as a way to communicate with us that she does not want to be seen. I lay beside her, nestle my body against hers, and begin to talk to her. I pray over her. I thank her for the memories and time spent together. I thank her for being the best grandmother. I tell her how beautiful, strong and resilient she is. I tell her that I want nothing more than peace for her. I cry on her shoulder. I let each tear fall until my mascara creates little puddles of black underneath my eyes.
I take a deep breath. She removes the pillows, looks me dead in my face, pats my head and holds my hand so tight that her nails bite into my fingers. I don’t mind the strong grip or when my knuckles begin to bleed. She hears every word and feels them land on her. She recognized me and my voice despite the dementia and aphasia. I am grateful that our spirits communicated with each other even if her corporeal body can no longer speak.
Visiting my grandmother granted me permission to clean out – to begin again. While I don’t know when she will transition, I am taking with me the impermanence of things and leaning softly into the memories sowed.
I pull out an orange dress and fold it neatly on my bed and trace the memory of a friend surprising me at my front door, dropping it off as a gift during COVID. I think about the joy on her face, saying to me, “Orange is your color and this dress was made for you.” That was the last time I saw her. She passed away two years later.
I sit on my bed. Cleaning out, letting go, holding on, and remembering. In the end, we take nothing with us, only the memories made.
Listen to: Alice Coltrane - Turks & Ramakrishna