The Unbearable Being of Lightness

August 17, 2013

I spent the better part of this past weekend, starting Thursday morning, addressing the holy mess that is my garage, with the lofty goal that it will be cleared out so I can park in it before the first snowfall. "But it's only August 17!" I hear y'all crying. "We have weeks of summer left, right??!!!" Oh sure, perhaps in other parts of the world, mid-August guarantees many more gloriously sunny days, but not here in Minnesota. And if you're from MN, you know better, that we know better, than to take Ma Nature for granted.

August 17 roughly translates to: stick a fork in it, summer is done, kids! in Minnesotanese. Christmas decorations have taken the place of Crayola Crayons and wide-ruled notebooks at Target. State Fair, the Official MN State Holiday, starts this week. School the following. Winter, next. I know you think I'm a doomsdayer, but just yesterday, I saw a teenage girl walking down Snelling Avenue with Uggs and shorts on! My first thought was, "That's still a 'style'?! Uggggg....." Second thought, "She knows something we don't know—by dinnertime we'll be knee-deep in snow!" Third thought, "Oh, yeah. Teenagers are always trying to be ironic, therefore by sheer virtue of trying, Uggs in August doesn't mean anything." What I'm saying here, peeps, is that life as we love it and so wish it could be forever, is pretty much spent, am I not right, fellow Minnesotans?! And Iowans and Wisconsonites, and Nebraskans, and Kansans, and . . . who else is considered midwest?!? Such optimists, we hearty midwesterners!

Most Minnesotans can and will provide a lengthy personal narrative, should you ask (if you dare), supporting the fact that we truly have no idea what cards we might be playing with in MN, after August 15 (or before, for that matter), when it comes to weather. Invoke the memory of the Halloween Blizzard of 1991, and you'll hear gut-wrenching stories of hearty, determined little trick-or-treaters plodding through chest-deep snow to fill their plastic pumpkin heads with fun-sized candy bars (or brave college student who couldn't make in to work on account of the raging blizzard, but through resourceful strategizing, found a friend of a friend with a 4-wheel drive pickup to hitch a ride to the bar. Someone I know personally? Nah. Just heard the story.). Or the May 15th blizzard just this spring. The flip side to the story can be as compelling: the heat wave that was nearly the entire winter of 2011/12, cruelly cheating snowmobilers and ice fisher-people from happiness, while the rest of us simultaneously gave thanks with turkey dinner on the patio and and celebrated St. Patty's with 85 degree temps. Play the wild card and toss out any year, and someone will have a bizarre weather story to relate. Short story: we're not in control.

No matter what Farmer's Almanac tells us, or what the Eastern Black Swallowtail caterpillar behavior or density of moss on the trees or whatever might suggest, we are not in control. No matter how much we prepare for, or how hard we try to control external factors, we're always caught with our proverbial snow pants down. Our summer started late this year—as I mentioned earlier, our last blizzard was May 15—and seems to be ending early, given the dip in temps the past few weeks (a friend of mine reported that just last Monday, it was a balmy 37 degrees at their cabin near Grand Rapids. For the record, Grand Rapids, MN is not anywhere near the Arctic Circle). Word to the wise: skip the beach Labor Day weekend. Stay home. Stock up on long undies. Slap plastic over the windows, hay bales around the foundation. Now. Don't say I didn't warn you. But, enough wallowing, back to my story. I do have a tendency to ramble off track, and there is a point to this story. At least there was when I started this. I kind of forgot what it was now . . . something about a garage. . .

Oh yeah, now I remember. See, in Minnesota, a garage is prime real estate. A major priority in house buying/renting. Having a garage is the difference between knowing that your car will start after a night of minus twenty degrees and having to call for a jump and wait six hours for AAA to show up because they have to get through the rest of the 999,999 metro residents who also don't have garages. A garage is the difference between pulling out of the driveway without breaking out the ice scraper, and having to excavate your vehicle from under a burial mound of snow using every tool in the car (which will likely consist of everything that is not an ice scraper—driver's license, road map, hair brush, checkbook, cell phone, laptop, textbook . . .) Not having a garage means running the risk of being towed because the requisite two-plus inches of snow fell overnight and today is an even numbered day on a full moon with Jupiter rising, which meant that yes, your street was, in fact scheduled for snow removal. But you forgot to move your car because you thought the rules were three inches, odd days, with Saturn's third moon waning. Whatever any of that means. Point is, I run the risk of all the above, if I can't park in my garage.

For several years (and many years prior to even knowing the existence of each other), before we bought hour first house, Bob and I faced the perils of living in Minnesota without a garage. I remember a winter when several inches of freezing rain hermetically sealed everything that wasn't under cover with a thick glaze of ice. Snapped trees in half, took down power lines, made everything so breath-takingly, if not lethally, beautiful. As though carving ice sculptures, it took several hours of painstaking chiseling to create the form of cars from icy blocks in parking lots and streets. "That's it," Bob and I collectively agreed after that winter. "We're going to buy a house, and it's going to have a garage!"

Not long after, we bought an adorable little house in Roseville, our first home—we were finally proud owners of not just a house, but a garage (and a yard, too!)! Great idea in concept, but we soon discovered we couldn't park it in. It had one stall which was soon piled to the rafters with camping gear, kayaks, Bob's work paraphernalia, patio furniture, work bench full of tools that we couldn't get to, on account of the camping gear, kayaks, patio furniture, work paraphernalia. Which is why we always hired someone to even change a lightbulb. Couldn't get to the step ladder.

"We'll have a bigger garage with our next house," we said, dreamily. And eight years later, we did. A three stall garage, into which we piled more crap. We were still able to park in the garage, though barely. The sides of my car bore at least a few scars the color of the garage trim, from the tight maneuvering I had to do, to wedge it into its parking place.

I did tell you I have this nasty little habit of digressing, right? A natural part of my nature, so please adapt accordingly, as it happens on a regular basis. I do try to reign it it and tie in all the rambling loose ends together when all is said and done. Unless I forget. Or don't care. Or keep rambling.

So, I woke up early Thursday morning, cleaned and purged the garage like a mad woman. Most of this stuff is the stuff from the three stall garage from our old house. Oh yeah, and the basement and closets, the extra bedroom, the family room, the roughly 1200 extra square feet that I no longer have. My mom and mother-in-law often comment with surprise, how much stuff "I" have. I have to often remind them that this is a twenty-plus year accumulation with another person (their son, son-in-law) who is no longer with me. Think about that for a minute. Think about your own house, how much stuff is in it, and what you might have to get rid of, should the person you love and live with up and die on you, and leave you with one big holy mess to clean up. Hate to say it, but, just sayin' . . .

Several hours later, no morning kindergarten, I jammed a huge load of stuff into the Jeep, slammed the tailgate shut and headed to the local thrift store. The Jeep was so full I maybe, legally, should've had extended mirrors and a second pair of eyes to watch for traffic. Next day, more of the same. And the following day. Doesn't really matter where we went, what I donated, or if I could see traffic in my rearview mirror. All that really matters is that again, a slice of my heart was carved out, dripping blood and donated along with the bags and bags and boxes and boxes that I handed over to the handsome young man and raven-haired, tattooed woman at the thrift store, waiting with open arms and beautiful smiles, for my stuff. Melodramatic to some, perhaps, but this is a two-plus year process that has yet to see an end. I completely get why so many people who lose a loved one put this task off for years, decades, sometimes forever. Because along with the purging comes a deluge of memories and emotions that nearly drown in their power, leaving a person sputtering and gasping in disbelief: is all of this really what used to be my life? These bags and boxes and piles of things?

Not that you asked, was just thinking. . . let's take inventory of all the stuff I've given away to family/sold/donated/might still have but is hidden from view in a closet, garage, basement, from my former life, shall we? Seems like it's a neverendingproject, so let's just try to put some end to it, with a list, with a beginning and end. I'm doing this as a public service announcement. Save and print for future reference.

Futon

recliner

living room chair and ottoman
Dining room table and 6 chairs.
Patio table and 4 chairs

6 plastic patio chairs
picnic table/umbrella
bird feeders/bird houses
Snow blower
roof rake
lawn mower
Queen bed (2)
Coffee table (2)
Office suite: desk, extension table, file cabinets, office chair
another desk
TV/entertainment stand (2)
tall book case
inversion table (I sure miss hanging upside down on that thing, all bat-like, a la Grandpa Munster . . .)
refrigerator
oven
dishwasher
washing machine
gas grill
power generator
oodles of garden perennials
file cabinet (2)
short book cases (2)
closets full of Bob's clothes
bags and bags of my own clothes

a carload of hospice equipment—walker, shower chair, 2 canes, orthotic boots/braces, handicap toilet seat, electric blanket, bags of adult diapers, bandages, tapes, wound supplies, hospital slippers, shower safety handles
camera and accessories
camping gear—tents, sleeping bags, coolers, camp chairs, misc. equipment
boxes and boxes of books, CDs, videos (yup, videos, as in VHS), DVDs
2 TVs
under-counter radio/dvd player
DVD/VHS player (for all those VHS tapes mentioned above)
boxes of dishes, wine glasses, kitchen stuff
microwave
excess bedding, towels
golf clubs
collection of Budweiser beer steins
several framed prints
many window's worth of curtains
shower curtains/bath accessories (I used to have 3 bathrooms)
barstools (4)
end tables (4)

telephone table
night stands (2)
dressers (2)
sofa table
room divider

2 computers

2 printers
various and sundry garage items (tools, yard tools, wheelbarrow—I totally miss my wheelbarrow!—extension pole for painting, shelving, endless piles of extension cords—why did we have so damn many extension cords??!!—circular saw, miter saw, chain saw)

Carved out. Again. And again, every time I make myself go through the detritus (my mom's favorite word!) of that former life. When will this end? Will I have a heart left, after all this carving out and reinventing? Will I need the Wizard of Oz, to give me another? In the not-so-distant past, I have believed the answer to those questions were, never, no, and and then some. But I am continually surprised to discover the contrary. No, it is true, this reinventing will never end. But that is true of all of us. And yes, surprisingly I still have a heart, no Wizard necessary. And with each act of giving up, I feel lighter, breathe deeper and easier, can think better, remember clearer, with more love than loss. Surprisingly, I smile even, feeling my heart swelling, growing, as I think of that young man and woman with outstretched arms at the Vietnam Vets of America thrift store, to the families who are helped by Bridging, to the Springer Spaniel Rescue in MN,so many lives who might be helped, so many people who might be very grateful to hold the things that I once held. And Bob once held. Circle of life.

My latest Zen experiment is this. It's only things, right? Just stuff. Not a living, breathing being in the whole great big pile of stuff. And who needs all this stuff, anyway?! It comes as a shock to sit and make a list of all the things I have given away since Bob died (and I thought Bob and I were such minimalists, compared to others . . .) Even more shocking to know that this is just the stuff that I can specifically remember; who knows how long the list would be, if it included the things I have forgotten . . . All of this stuff pales in comparison to the life and soul of the beautiful man that I will be forever in love with, to the souls of the young people who reached to take my discarded items, to the souls of the many who so desperately need stuff to begin a life. Does my husband's soul reside in the dishes we registered for when we got married? Or the quilt his mom stitched by hand for us, for our wedding? Or the Neoprene boots that he used when he went kayaking? I don't think so, as much as we want/chose to inscribe such a meaning. Holding onto all of that stuff is like trying to create a freakish Frankenstein version of someone who is no longer here . . . try as I might, to piece together my husband by keeping all of this stuff, it'll never, ever replace him, and in fact, inhibits me from truly moving forward . . . yeah, okay, I'm still working on that metaphor . . .

But everyone has to make that decision in their own time, if ever. Those things I donated still have lots of life left in them, can still serve another person, but no longer serve me. I can hold onto them till I take my last breath, but what happens then? My nieces and nephews may have to make the executive decision to haul all that crap to the landfill, cursing their crazy ol' aunt all along the way. Call me cold-hearted, but despite the deluge of tears and throat-clenching that happens with each act of handing huge pieces of my former life/heart over to those at the donation door, I also know it's time to let another layer go, to get to a deeper level of healing. One beautiful life handed to another. Anything truly shitty went straight into the trash, or recycled if possible, but the rest? All still beautiful, with many good years left to give. Just too tied to my heart. All that stuff holds me down. Keeping me from true healing. It's just stuff. Stuff that is not Bob. Bob's memory is safely ensconced in my heart. And his spirit is soaring. Not wrapped a quilt. Or hiding in the toes a pair of waders. Or in his golf bag. His spirit is free. Around me. Above me. Through me.

I would love to pass every last piece of everything I've ever owned, on to someone who would/could use it, if possible, rather than cry whenever I see it, and slam the box closed again, stuff it in the closet, or garage, or basement, for who knows how long. Usless. Just taking up valuable space that could be better used, in so many other ways.

On Monday, I volunteer for the first time, at Habitat for Humanity. If I don't drill my head to the wall with an automatic nail gun, I'll be posting soon on this super-exciting event! Huge smooches to all! xxoo