Over two years have passed since I lost my mother. Soon after her passing my little dog Bailey and I moved out of the only place at that time I can actually say I ever called home. I had bought a beautiful little townhouse in a quiet community at the end of a wooded road, where the familiar sound of the computer train hummed its way to and from the Ipswich Train Depot. It warmed my soul to bring a childhood memory, one which I was so fond of, with me to my new home. The sounds of the moving train became a comforting lullaby in my youth, and as I grew older. I dare say if the train had taken an occasion to play hooky, I might surely have felt something was amiss, just from the absence of sound. Yes, I was glad to have brought the Boston and Maine with me to Ipswich, because there was so much I feared, going forward, as I left behind everything I had held on so tightly to for so many years. Those kind of memories one cannot pack up tightly into boxes and bring along with you. Those memories are already packed tightly inside our hearts, where if they are meant to be, will stay forever. The “STUFF” which we so carefully put in boxes, well they are the disposable memories. Those feelings attached to them are the golden nuggets.
Unfortunately, I brought with me far too much of the disposable kind of memories, packed in boxes. And they are still packed in the same boxes, stacked on my new walnut writing desk, piled so high you can’t even see its finish. In fact, honestly, I don’t even know how many memories are in these boxes, but I have become paralyzed and consumed, admittedly, by an unrestrained fear, that inhibits me from going near these boxes, never mind opening one to sort through them and just give something away or, bite my lip, actually finish moving into the place which I now consider home. Unfortunately this means I must ultimately, DEAL WITH THIS STUFF! This would mean, so long, good-bye, see ya later. No longer will I have possession of said, “memories.” No longer will I be the keeper of the key. Just saying the words good bye to these would be a huge relief which one might not thoroughly appreciate. Yet, understand, to be at the center of “THINGS,” they do begin to suffocate, and impede your freedom, your movement, literally.
Ahhhhh. The sweet smell of open floor space, the top of my walnut desk, endust, a new recliner, box-free. I could make rug angels in the middle of my living room. It all sounds so delicious. And after contemplating this subject for this short time, that impending doom has escaped me a bit where I may even be able to face a few of these boxes and trash some of those disposable memories, because I may not remember what is in those boxes, but I do remember who is in my heart. Ö
THE MAGIC PEN 
Are memories ‘disposable’ just because they’re attached to stuff? Is it better to forget or to remember? Is it even possible to really forget? I agree that “…those memories packed tightly inside our hearts… will stay forever.” What is the difference between a memory that is “meant to be” and one that is not? Even when our mother’s brain could no longer access precious shared memories, I came to believe that there was a level at which she remembered all, and maybe there is a level of existence at which we will someday see and remember more than we can possibly imagine in this life. Memories can be conscious or unconscious. Sometimes I think we have to go through our accumulated stuff to rescue memories that have been forgotten, parts of self that have been unjustly abandoned and relegated to the unconscious. Sometimes what lies mute and forgotten, “tightly packed” in our hearts needs to be articulated to become our own. May I make a suggestion for approaching the boxes of stuff? Approach them like a conscious opportunity to return to the feelings, happy or painful, that might be evoked by the disposable stuff, and use each occasion to journal with your magic pen about those feelings, memories and reflections that might arise, as they all reflect a part of your soul’s journey, like pieces of a mosaic that will fall into place. In the end, you might arrive at a broader overview of your life and life’s lessons, discover meaningful patterns and a map of your soul’s progress, find hidden gems among the lurking demons, which you can own in the form of writing, so that you can better know what is worth keeping and what is worth letting go. If you find any shared disposable memories, I’ll be happy to go through them with you. Now I must go deal with my own disposables, recyclables and collectibles. Like you, dealing with such “stuff” is something I feel I must do before I can make a new home for myself.
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