As I mentioned in another post, A Clutter-Free Life, I’m in the process of going through everything I own to get rid of items I don’t need or want. My motivation includes making space in my house, simplifying my life, and making room for who I am becoming.
Making space and simplifying were the “easy” end results that I wanted. Making room for the next phase of my life was harder, because I knew that I had to let go of part of who I wanted to be, but did not become. My faith and hope in living a more authentic life gave me the courage to take a deeper look.
Who Were You?
I sorted through a lot of things from when I was a little girl. Things my mother saved: report cards, kindergarten paintings, little notes I wrote to her and my father. I found seven different notes that were part of my guerilla marketing campaign to get a kitten named Jeremy, complete with a drawing of a kitten on each one! (For the record, it didn’t work, but my later campaign to get a dog did, thank God.)
I also found a series of essays I wrote for school when I was sixteen. I loved those; they were a fun peek into my mind at that time. I didn’t believe in reincarnation, although I was “open to the possibility,” because I realized that no one knows for sure. I seemed to think that living over and over again as different people was a silly thing to do, yet I thought hanging out in heaven for eternity would be too boring. (Well, okay then!)
When going through these things, it was clear to me that I no longer identify as much as I used to with my younger self. When I originally saved these things, my childhood was a much nearer experience than it is now. My little girl self is still a part of me, but it feels odd now to keep things like my kindergarten paintings. Would I ever look at them again? Not likely. They simply take up space, from a part of my life I already lived. (But those essays are kind of cool, so I’m keeping them, even though, years from now, I may find them and wonder why in the world I saved them.)
Looking at who you were can tell you a lot about who you are now. It’s the beginning of the narrative of your life story. It sets the stage, comic or tragic, that your current life emerged from. Looking at things from my childhood gave me an orientation point for the other things I looked through. It reminded me of who I was, and where I came from.
Who Did You Think You Were “Supposed” to Be?
I also found artifacts from my prior professional life. It was the life I chose, because I couldn’t imagine being able to have the life I wanted. It was the consolation life, I guess. Not all bad, but not that great, either.
I found lots of technical writing work samples, including published manuals that I wrote, and a very old printout of an early online help system that I wrote and helped design. I threw all that out, without a second thought. (Okay, I recycled them.) All those years of work, but they no longer mattered to me. Some of that work was interesting and challenging, but it wasn’t meaningful.
Sometimes, not living the life you’re to meant to live is part of the journey. It’s living the status quo life, believing the consensus reality that tells you that your real gifts aren’t wanted. A wise teacher once told me, it’s learning about something via negativa, by what it is not.
I thought I would be more regretful about that period of my life, but correcting my path has taken the sting out of staying on the wrong one for such a long time. That’s been a good, and surprising, lesson. You can’t change your past, but you can change your future. It’s easier to make peace with a mistake, if you are already working to correct it.
Who Did You Want to Be?
The hard part—what I really dreaded—was going through the things that were once a part of my hope for my future that I never realized. Because this loss is something I can’t change in the future, it’s harder to look at. But I did. (And I still am.)
I found a little red fold-up chair I sat on as a child. A set of play kitchen appliances. Doll clothes my grandmother crocheted. A tiny porcelain tea set. A child-size table and two chairs. One of my baby buggies. The big doll my parents gave me one Christmas. (I still remember how I felt, walking around the corner to see her—not wrapped!—in front of the Christmas tree, wearing a green satin ballerina outfit that my grandmother made.)
The things that still have sentimental value, I’ll keep. The others, I’m letting go. No little girl of mine will sit on that chair, or push that buggy, or hear about her great grandmother who made all those doll clothes by hand. Anyone who thinks that letting go of a life unlived (but truly wanted) isn’t as much of a grieving process as losing part of what you lived (but still want) is sleepwalking through life.
When I was little, I was fierce in my commitment to look at things that scared me, or hurt me. I would think about them, and let myself feel what it would be—or was—like, because I wanted to stay strong enough to stay sensitive. I didn’t want to avoid the hard things; I wanted to be fully in my life. I know in my wisest self that this is how I need to live, but the more loss I experienced in my life, the harder this became for me.
Part of reclaiming my authentic life is living with loss, not finding an intellectual or spiritual platitude to box it away in a corner. I want to live all the parts of my life. And I’m always surprised that when I do, as difficult as it is sometimes, I often have the sense at the same time, of it being all okay. I see that both things are true.
Whatever your losses, opening up to them can be a kind of healing; instead of spending so much energy to push them away, you integrate them into your whole life. And I always ask God for help, and I remember to still my mind, and listen to what comes. I’m never disappointed if I am sincere.
To move forward, we have to let go of the parts of ourselves that are no longer true for us, and sometimes we also have to live with the grief of an unlived dream at the same time. That grief is part of who we are, and it affects what we have to give to the world.
Who Are You Now, and Who Are You Becoming?
So, what do you do with the unlived parts of your life? You can decide to live them, or let them go. And if you let them go, what’s in the space left behind?
By accepting what we’ve lost and grieving for it, we are brought back to the authenticity of who we are now, and who we still can become. We see ourselves more clearly, so we can make a life that is in alignment with who we are. We have the courage to be real.
I love to coach, because I help people with their next steps. I help them see that the empty space is rich with possibility. Who do you want to become?
This is a poem I wrote about grief, not with anyone in mind, but with everyone and everything in mind. For those of you dealing with any kind of grief, I offer this as an acknowledgment of how hard it is, and with a reminder to be very, very kind to yourself.
The Loss of You
Shapes crouch and dance
slowly around a hot fire.
They are human and not human,
from a past so dim it flickers;
light, dark, light, shadow.
The place is beyond words,
where thought is as pale and fragile as a moth.
When I try to explain the loss of you,
they laugh a song that shakes their bodies.
Their leathery skin sprouts feathers.
Noses harden into sharp beaks.
Their black eyes, reflecting firelight, are round, piercing, infinite.
Their wings shudder. And then they wail.
They keen from their bellies.
They pluck beakfulls of feathers
and spit them into the fire,
transforming them into smoke
rising like breath in the cold night air.
Then, they settle.
They stop and perch on the sandy soil.
Their feathers fall like old leaves.
They become human, and not human, again.
They begin to slowly dance around the fire.
A vast, dark sky dotted with stars arcs over them.
Behind them lies a deep, still lake filled with everything that has been lost,
and everything that will be found.
What loss do you need to grieve and integrate, to move forward to the life you want to live?
