Six garbage bags full of clothes that haven't fit me for months (and longer) are on their way to the clothing dropbox at the gas station up the road. I tried them all. Too loose. Wow. Six bags. Who knows? Not me. It's not up to me. You can hand it over. That's the beauty.
Old friends once crumpled in the corner of the closet are now hanging on hangers, saying, Hey, where you been?
Who me? I set my mom down a little over a year ago, didn't you hear? I don't have to carry her anymore.
Oh. You thought you did?
Well, no. It's not that you know you're carrying their illness around for them. It's not conscious. It's how it works until you see that you're not doing anyone any favor by carrying that load--least of all yourself and those you love. Plus it tires you out. It took me a long time. Longer than some, not as long as others, I guess.
Well, to a silk blouse this stuff you're saying doesn't make much sense. But we're glad to see you anyway.
Glad to see you too.
Recovery in progress.
