I’ve spent the last few days purging things from my house. I always procrastinate this task, until the walls start to feel as though they’re caving in a little more each day. Since I put it off until I can almost take it no more, I enter the job motivated to roll up my sleeves, throw my hair up in a bandana, blast my favorite music through the stereo, and forge ahead with garbage bags by my side. I envision the sigh of relief I will enjoy when I fill each bag with discarded items, leaving behind a few more inches of unworn carpet and exposed floor molding.
So, I begin. Five minutes into the wire hanger jungle creature that has taken over my closet, I can feel my motivation start to slide down the curvy paisley pattern on my bandana. I am a quarter way through the shirts that I definitely haven’t worn in at least a year and instead of plucking them off the hangers and piling them into the bags, I rationalize why I should keep them – yet again. I start to envision when I just might need those silky bell-bottom black pants that are two sizes too big. I could use a silky scarf as a belt, another one for my hair, and I could be the perfect genie for Halloween. Or, the dorky T-shirt I got in Budapest that cleverly states “Budapest” on the front might be the only way I will ever remember my trip to Eastern Europe. And so it goes for the entire bottom rack. I can suddenly think of endless possibilities for these items that have been hanging around, patiently waiting for their turn in the spotlight.
There are some items in my house that I won’t even consider for the purging process. For example, my CD and book collections will stay untouched, whether I have actively used most of them, and whether or not I have space to add to them. Of course I have books that I haven’t read and CDs that I haven’t listened to. These are for retirement. But for now, my shelves will remain configured, ready to burst into literal sidesplitting laughter at my perhaps old-fashioned integrity.
I ponder over why I tend to hold on to these hypothetical ideas as I strive to fill each bag. One of my favorite things about teaching is sculpting all of the possibilities I see in my students and the program I can create from them. I can sift through countless lesson plans, sit through tedious staff meetings, attend workshops, and always take away at least one possible idea that will usually end up being a source of motivation for weeks to come. I think most people’s motivation lives in possibilities.
I think about how many songs are themed around possibility. “Over the Rainbow”, “Wide Open Spaces”, “The Rainbow Connection”, are just a few that immediately come to mind. The patriotic songs that celebrate our country were penned from inspirations of possibility. I direct musicals each year with plots that leave some kind of wonderment or question about how we might change something about our life or see things in a new light. When we read a book or watch a movie, we often see the possibilities of the characters in ourselves. We travel, take classes, buy things, go out on dates, interview for jobs, join sports teams, cook, and wake up each morning for possibility.
As I continue to dig into the burrows of my storage, I think of my dad who passed away eight years ago today. This day every year is filled with moments of memories, stillness, and perspective of how this stepping-stone has affected me as time has passed. I also wonder about how he is, wherever he is. I wonder if he feels any regrets about his life, or if regrets are something we let go of the minute we let go of this world. My dad and I were never very close, but I try not to have regrets about that. We did the best we could under the circumstances with the time we had. I feel most thankful for the sense of peace that we were able to share during the end of our time together, as we used the suddenly precious time to see one another in an unguarded way free of judgment and past obstacles. The saddest part of that was realizing how comfortable we could be together and wondering how things might have been different. Even with the emotional distance we had always tolerated, I had always seen my dad as someone I might one day get to know better. Some people can rattle off thousands of memories they shared with a loved one and the things they miss about them after they leave. I miss the possibility of my dad.
I suppose this plays into my habit of allowing seemingly small decisions such as sorting through closets overwhelm me at times. Maybe it’s a branch of the grieving tree. I have unconsciously made many decisions in my life that pivot around possibility, finding comfort in its omnipresence.
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