I enter the closet in my Mind.
The door squeaks a little as I push it open
Looking around, I quickly determine that everything seems to be pretty much as I left it the last time I was in here. I exhale, surprised to realize I have been holding my breath.
I seem to come to this room more often these days.
I don’t really want to but I feel compelled.
It seems like the natural course of events to review my Life and try to make sense out of it.
Usually, I’m compelled by a thought, a past memory from somewhere deep that wells up maybe as a lump in the back of my throat, or perhaps as a stabbing pain in my head, or more often than not as an ache-a longing I can’t quite name. Other times it’s a random question casually asked by one of my children or grandchildren.
How else can I reduce this Generational Trauma other than to face it?
My goal is to downsize as much as possible and leave a much more manageable (though undoubtedly mismatching) set of baggage for my family to have to deal with. Of course, I’d rather leave none but that’s impossible. But I can choose to leave a Legacy that accepts responsibility, seeks to make amends, and authentically represents me.
I think I’ve made a pretty good effort so far. I’ve sorted through piles of memories, thoughts, feelings, decisions, behaviors, traumas, etc. Progress feels painstakingly slow as I bring each item under consideration into the light of day. Scrutinizing carefully and honestly, searching for any holes, damage, or inconsistencies- these tasks cannot be rushed.
“This is a process,” I think, noticing the chill in the air, willing myself to be patient and brave. Looking within takes courage. You don’t get to choose what you will discover.
I take a step toward my next task and in an instant, I’m no longer verticle but laying on the floor. I glance over and see the culprit. Grief has caught me unaware (again) and tripped me! I fell hard.
I decide to just stay here and wait for the throbbing pain in my heart to subside into a tolerable and familiar numbness before attempting to get up. Absently reaching out my hand, I am startled to discover a bony phalange (the distal phalanx to be precise). The bony finger of one of the (many) skeletons in my closet, long forgotten and left crumpled on the floor like a discarded prom dress, points at me accusingly. I immediately relax because of course I have long been aware of the presence of the skeletons! I’m the one who put them there!
A ray of light shining on the skeleton from above illuminates something I’ve never noticed before. I lift the hand of the skeleton to pull it closer for a better look. The dry bones and dust briefly turn into the fabric of a favorite dress I used to wear. A familiar pattern sparkles for just a second as if waiting for my acknowledgment, before fading and crumbling into dust into my hand!
“It can’t be true,” I think excitedly, scooting around on the floor to reach an old carcass in the back. I try it again and I am rewarded with the colorful flash of an outfit I wore long ago.
Before the swirling specks of dust can hit the floor I’m up and checking every skeleton.
Most turn out exactly the same. As soon as I recognize the past version of myself, it disintegrates.
I’ll come back again soon. I have a lot of dusting to do.
Encouraged by my new knowledge I accept and extend this moment of Grace to myself, feeling hopeful as I close the door behind me.
And those few actual skeletons?
Well, I’d rather not talk about those.
My Life as a Tumbleweed 