It’s been a while. Since I’ve been with my things. I’d already off-loaded so much when I moved from Florida to California three years ago. I sold darn near everything I owned. Only what could fit into my car is what came with. It felt good to let go of attachments. To relinquish things no longer necessary for my day-to-day. I learned the material world wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. It felt freeing to be stripped down energetically. I accumulated only a few additional things to furnish my place in California that up until now had been in storage for the past sixteen months while I was having my wanderlust travel adventure. Once again trading it all in for breathing room and freedom.
Now I sit with stacks and stacks of what I was never willing to part company with. My journals. Hundreds of them. So many that I am actually severely overwhelmed by them. I sat in my loft almost drowning in them. Wondering what in the world I would find inside. I flipped through a few. One from well over a decade ago. My handwriting even looks different. My penmanship evolved in more ways than I realized. It’s wild catching glimpses of your former life. Your former self, prior to your now evolution. Fully realized in these moments. I read through pages in another where I was continuing to stay in an unhealthy relationship over and over again. Complete and total insanity.
If only I could have told myself then what I learned through those days on the other side of that hell…
It’s almost a little sad and pathetic that I was that sad and pathetic. Only I don’t judge myself these days the way I did then. In fact, It was probably part of the glue that had me stuck back then. Boy have I evolved.
I flip through another and another and see the brilliant gems written in mostly purple ink. Tucked, dog-eared and safely stored away for “my book,” “my program,” my whatever the heck I WUZGUNNA do that I never did.
I even saw something I wrote back when I created my “Baggage Claim” program six years ago that is playing out now. I wrote, VULNERABILITY = Me too moments. Who knew years later a movement would happen around this and that Vulnerability would become the new black.
Once upon a time, I would have felt pain in the heaping pile of whatever I could dream up that I never acted on. And here it all still remains…a dream. And I’m not in pain. I have no angst, nor did it create a trigger. This once would have been a landmine for me, blowing up feelings of regret and inadequacy in my face. Not anymore. Now I’m just curious. What the hell will I do now?
It is way too overwhelming to even toy with the notion of extracting any of my previous content.
What came over me as I felt smothered in my own binders, is to start from scratch. Do I really need any of these ingredients to bake the book? I always thought that’s how it would come together. I would have this idea and this note, and this content and I would sift and sort and this would be my recipe for success. I’m more curious now as to what else is possible. I even dare toy with the audacity of just sitting down and allowing it to make itself. This is what I’m cooking up. Something new unbeknownst to even me.
One thing I am taking from this lesson in moving is that I needed all the years of ink I filled those pages with. It was my growth. My learning. My prep school of hard knocks that will serve me well now that the clearing has been made. I’m ready now. Only I’m not exactly sure what I will produce next. And I’m ready. I’ve definitely moved on from getting ready to get ready. I’m really ready now…
In the meantime. What to do with all these notebooks… To keep or not to keep. That is the question.
The “High on Life” Coach