Loss Creates Space

My brother and I stand at the dresser I used as a child. It is covered with sewing notions. Things our mom used to patch levis, stitch quilts, and add badges to scout shirts. Things that were useful when she was around.

My brother said: “It’s just a Chex tin, but I remember it from 40 years ago.”

I look at the other tin, full of spools of thread and pins and buttons. It takes me to my mom.

Actually everything in the house holds a memory of my mom, my dad or my childhood. Our dad’s death evokes our mom, who has been gone almost 13 years.

I pick up the tin, laugh and say, “Thank you for organizing Mom’s sewing sundries.”

My brother looks at me and I know he can hear the real emotion in my voice.

“Thank you for making our lives easier.”

It feels good to acknowledge.

Now that my mom and dad are both gone, their belongings feel even more precious. The monetary value has no bearing on the sentimental significance: a tangible representation of love, safety and belonging.

I look at a few of my favorite things I keep in my office: a shell from Tonga, a figurine that belonged to my mom, a pottery piece made by my daughter.

People, not things. But things can conjure a person. Things can inspire ideas and creativity.

Sorting my parents’ belongings is my most recent experience in learning to let go.

In the last couple of years, I’ve let go of:

• the daily care and guidance of children
• my identity as a mom of five involved children in my home
• the home in which I raised my children
• things that supported our lives for the last 30 years
• the stability of living in a place for 14 years
• people who know me
• a job I loved
• our family dog
• my dad
• his home and many of his possessions
• my identity as a daughter who is caring for her dad

Sometimes it just feels like loss. Like losing a piece of my dad, a part of my identity, a chunk of my heart.

But loss creates space.

Sometimes it’s best to let go. Of things that add weight, of people whom we can’t help, of situations that burden. Kind of like forgiveness.

If my arms are full of things that no longer serve my purpose, there is no room to reach for something new.

Some things I really can’t hold at all. Like sand in the tide or snowflakes or a child’s first steps. But I can be present for those moments. I can notice and really feel them. I can keep a memory or even a small reminder. I can understand every moment shapes me.

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I’m learning what I can hold. Like space for the unknown, for creativity and learning. I can hold space for hope and love. I can hold space to evolve and become more.

I’m learning that things are heavier than people. Worry is heavier than actual catastrophe. With worry, you walk alone. When the unthinkable happens, there are always helpers. There is always God.

When I know who I am, really know in my core, I am only defined by God. I am not defined by people or things or situations.

My brother and I look at the things that were essential yesterday. We keep thimbles and memories. We keep love and identity.

And we think of her. Of what she taught us.

We know who we are.