Cleaning And Culling

November 7, 2023

Everything is so precious to me anymore.

The farther along in the unfolding of this life-transition I get, the more I can clearly see how unwell I had become back there. Looking ahead? It’s still plenty foggy up ahead. Looking back? It’s easy to see clearly how pitifully unwell I was in mind and body. Looking right here where my feet are? It’s beautiful. Life is becoming beautiful again. It’s becoming beautiful in a different hue of beautiful than I have ever known. Life is becoming interesting again. Life has become something that I want to keep doing. Thank the Good Lord for that.

Now that was an unexpected trip down memory lane. And it was the craziest little trigger that set it off.

I was standing there at the sink washing a couple of pint jars. You know. Using a jar brush. Then bang. There I was. Clearly pictured in my mind was a reel playing … like a movie reel … that showed me as a kid, outside under the shade of that pecan tree washing canning jars. Not just a few. Hundreds. I washed hundreds of canning jars every canning season from the time I was old enough to do it until I finally pulled up stakes and left the farm behind for fun and better times. Or so I thought.

I’ve been wrong so many times

I was once better than I am now

I was once worse, a lot worse

Than anybody would believe

And here I sit wondering

Where did the last twenty go

Where did it all go so fast

Where did it all go ...  so ... damned ... fast

Ha. And there is no sign that its rapid forward movement is going to slow down between here and there.

One day, after I’m gone, my children and grandchildren will appreciate the words that I am writing in this journal where, as in no other time in my life, have I ever allowed others such an uncensored open window to peer into the dark closets and inner workings of my mind and soul. Well, isn’t this a ballsy thing to do? Not really. There’s no bravado on my part involved. I care not one whit about popular opinion. In a large way, while I’m talking to myself in these journal entries, I’m talking with my children, grandchildren, and a small cluster of dear ones who comprise my heart-kin and Tribe. For these I care immensely. 

It's time to do more culling. Can't avoid it. I’m cleaning and culling as I go. Badly needed cleaning. And the culling has to continue as part of moving forward healthily is concerned. The culling doesn’t get any easier. There is stuff in drawers and cabinets all through this place that trigger memories. Stuff that Shirli will never use again. Things that I can’t imagine me using again. Yet, I’ll pick something up, hold it, and cringe at the thought of parting with it before I either toss it into the can here in the shack or walk it out to the big can.

This is a project that is going to take a while.