Purging the Stuff, Not the Memories

I’ve come across some cool stuff while going through all these boxes from my childhood, adolescence, and early adulthood.

I discovered my Cabbage Patch Kids (and almost immediately found new homes for them), some old Legos, and the very first Fossil watch I ever owned (which is unfortunately all corroded from leaving a spent battery in it for too many years).

I have already warned my boyfriend about the forthcoming Beanie Babies. I have a huge box stuffed full of nothing but Beanie Babies. I can’t wait to give those suckers away to good homes.

(Just as soon as I find them.)

So, last night, I came across a box that had a bunch of notebooks and folders from college. One of the folders was a packet from the Alpha Phi Omega national convention in 1996, which was held in Phoenix, Arizona.

Inside the packet, I came across a huge collection of folded pieces of paper.

I was utterly confused.

I began unfolding the papers and reading their contents. I read paper after paper, until finally, it hit me.

Suddenly, a wave of memory hit me as the whole 1996 convention flashed back into my mind. I read every single note and laughed. Some of them were inside jokes I’ve long since forgotten. Some were from people I still remember, and other notes just struck me as peculiarly funny.

A few of the notes contained pleas to buy t-shirts like what we were wearing (the front of the shirt said, “We do service, what the hell do you do?”)

And a lot of the notes discussed party logistics, because, let’s face it—if you’re a college kid going to a decent hotel with 1500 other college kids from all across the country… there will be parties. 

Good parties.

I thoroughly enjoyed reading those notes and strolling down that long and twisted lane of memories. Those notes even jogged my memory on some of the details of parliamentary procedure (sometimes called Robert’s Rules of Order).

I was one of the voting delegates, which means I had the honor of sitting on the legislation floor, along with over 200 other chapters from across the country.

So as voting delegates, we could not randomly get up and walk around, we had to wait for breaks. If we needed something, we used a runner to pass a note to the peanut gallery, asking someone out there to go get us whatever we needed.

For those not familiar with parliamentary procedure, the peanut gallery is the space behind delegate seats where the general public can listen in. If anyone in the peanut gallery had strong opinions about legislation on the floor, they could send a note to their delegates. Sort of like real-time lobbying.

Any delegate could also pass notes to another delegate on the voting floor.

Are you getting this picture?

Imagine a bunch of college kids sitting in a giant hotel ball room, with runners constantly on the move, passing notes, t-shirts, money, sodas, snacks, and whatever else amongst the peanut gallery and delegates.

It was actually pretty cool, but it did get boring to sit there all day if the legislation you cared about had come and gone.

I loved coming across those notes and having that sudden flash of memory.

I also threw the notes away, along with all the other accoutrements from that convention.

(Go me!)

I’ll never forget how important Alpha Phi Omega was to me. It gave me a sense of purpose, back when I didn’t feel I had one. My favorite role was liaising with other chapters and building the connection between our chapter at Vanderbilt and other chapters at schools in our region.

APO was so important to me that I became a life member during my senior year in college. I was also awarded a Distinguished Service Key, which is the highest honor a chapter can give a member. It's given for outstanding service to the fraternity. 

I’ve done absolutely nothing with APO since those days, but through that co-ed service fraternity, I found my friends and a sense of purpose. I learned and then taught leadership skills. I learned the depth of value of community service, and I learned that one person really can make a difference. I even organized an entire weekend convention, including presenters and a whole host of other tiny little details. It nearly broke me, but it’s one of the best experiences I ever had back in those days, because it showed me a glimpse of what I was (and am) really made of.

(And it's not completely out of place to mention that the theme for that conference's t-shirt was, "You'll love the stuff we're made of." Yes. We stole the Pizza Hut tag line from those days... oops.)

I’ll always have these memories. And now that I’m finally going through all of this crap and throwing it away, I can record the memories in my own way, so I won’t forget them again. It's refreshing to finally understand that I don't need to hang on to all of this stuff as physical representation of the memories. 

I have to say that although this cleansing and letting go process is not easy… it's not all bad, either.

Another Round of Letting Go

I have things. So…many…things.

I have yearbooks from junior high, high school, and college.

I have stacks and stacks of magazines that I’ve never read. Oprah, Real Simple, and some jewelry and writing magazines. I held on to them because I just knew I’d read them “someday”.

I have letters from people who are no longer in my life.

I have clothes from high school. Concert T-shirts for musicians I no longer care about. Yellowed old T-shirts from various activities, groups, and events from my high school and college years.

I have paraphernalia from all phases of my life: papers, drawings, and books from childhood; toys, paperwork, and wall hangings from old jobs; stacks and stacks of photos, waiting to be sorted and digitized.

Lots of things… just waiting.

Waiting to be organized, sorted, discarded, remembered, and finally—forgotten.

I am a sentimental person, and I always have been. I don’t see that changing anytime soon. But at what point does holding on to old things burgeon from sentimental into the realm of narcissistic?

How long do I need to keep all of these things around me? What is the purpose? To remind me of who I was, or where I’ve come from? To remind me of things long forgotten, of moments I can no longer place, of history I don’t even remember living?

How much longer am I going to cart this stuff from one domicile to the next? How much more money will I pay movers to move all this crap? At what point does it turn from momentous and meaningful to downright self-centered, even selfish?

These are not small questions.

But the confession I have yet to admit is rather embarrassing.

When I moved into my two-bedroom, two-bathroom apartment in March 2011, the movers filled up the entire second bedroom with my crap. They moved over 100 boxes, in addition to the large pieces of furniture. In addition to my clothes. In addition to shoes.

Over 100 boxes of stuff.

What can you even say to that?

Yes, I downsized from a 1550 square foot house to an apartment of 862 square feet. Yes, I got divorced, so it was not only the splitting apart of stuff, but the splitting apart of my life and his life. And, yes, the minute my ex and I had moved into the house in 2002, my parents had lovingly dropped off over 20 boxes of stuff from my childhood they’d been storing in their garage. And, no, I hadn’t touched a single one of those boxes in the 9 years that we lived there.

And I could probably write an entire book about the actual split, but when I think about cleaning out that house, and how much stuff I ended up leaving in the house, it kind of astounds me. I even left my wedding dress there, atop a very large amoeba-like pile of trash bags stuffed to the gills with clothes that no longer fit me because I’d lost a significant amount of weight.

The things you do when you’re desperate, sick, exhausted, out of time, and out of patience…

What’s left, though, is quite impressive, which is to say it still overwhelms me.

So now, it is my task to go through all of these things. To sort, discard, donate, sell, give away, or organize all of this… stuff.

I’m not the most organized or patient person, and when I decide something has to go—I have to do it immediately, or I lose my momentum. So I may have the best intentions of selling something, or giving something to a specific organization, or scanning pictures just so someone can see whatever it was from 20 years ago that they probably won’t remember anyway—but when it comes down to it, I at least know myself well enough to admit I’m not terribly disciplined, organized, or patient. I tend to get bogged down in these kinds of tasks, and it drives me nuts to the point of quitting.

And besides, posting stuff on eBay takes patience and time. Giving away old magazines and toys through freecycle or whatever other venue takes time, effort, and energy. And patience. And dealing with complete strangers, who may or may not show up to retrieve said items.

Maybe if I had an assistant who could take care of all that stuff for me, I would do it.

But since I’m just a regular person… I need to make sure I only bite off what I can chew—without choking.

This is as good of a time as any to mention that I’m quite good with space. Specifically, strategically cramming lots of things into small spaces, like suitcases or closets. I am my father's daughter, after all, and he was in the Navy. He taught me how to pack for a trip, how to fold clothes to take up minimal space and not wrinkle, and of course, he taught me how to put sheets on the bed with perfect hospital corners.

When I moved into my apartment in March of 2011, I had boxes everywhere. Boxes from childhood. Boxes from high school. Boxes from college. Boxes from my marriage. Boxes, boxes, everywhere—when I moved in, they covered the whole floor and piled up as tall as my forehead in the back bedroom.

When I first moved in, I completely filled up the two decently sized closets in the back bedroom with boxes. The rest remained on the floor, and I went through some of them but quickly got overwhelmed and lost my momentum.

(It seems all of my stuff actually chokes me… and breaking free of it may offer a kind of freedom I can’t yet grasp.

I’m not quite there yet.)

Every time I walk into that bedroom, I think about those two closets, stuffed full of boxes I need to go through.

Up until this past Sunday, they had remained mostly untouched.

I know as well as anyone that you can’t move forward and allow new things to come into your life until you let go of the old.

So, on Sunday, I began the emotional gutting of my apartment.

I went through five boxes from my old lives. Letters, stuffed animals from childhood, photo albums from high school and college, old clothes. Five boxes to remind me of all the things I have never dealt with or discarded.

It was so much more than that, of course. It was also an emotional gutting to my psyche. The thing that did me in was finding a letter from my dad from nearly 15 years ago, where he was upset that I was late on my car payments to the point it was hitting against my parents' credit. He was worried he couldn't keep it from my mom any longer.

It hit me like a pointy object jabbing me in the heart just how much I've disappointed and hurt people I dearly love because of my selfishness. Not just my mom and dad, but my college roommate, family, and other friends who have given me so much… and what have I given?

I couldn't throw that letter away. The sad thought entered my mind as I looked at photos of Daddy from almost 20 years ago, how healthy and young he looked... and I freaked out at the thought of throwing away one of the only things I have with his handwriting, because he won't always be around.

After I finished bawling into my boyfriend’s arms, he told me I’d done enough for one day, and for once—I listened. I heard him, and I agreed.

Letting go of things that I once held so close to me is hard. But when I look at each item and can’t place why I have it, a memory surrounding it, or a current or near-future use for it… why keep it?

I know I’ve only gone through five boxes, but it’s a start. A good start.

(I am working towards a goal, here. A goal that I don’t want to disclose yet… but I promise that when the time is right—you’ll know.)

In the meantime, though…

I am learning to be gentler and tenderer with myself. I am learning to honor my emotions—whatever they are. And I am keeping only safe people around me while doing this emotional archeological dig.

Each box promises new surprises and new challenges. I quickly lost count of the number of times I said, “Why do I even have this?” on Sunday, and that was for five measly boxes.

I still have many more to clear out. Many more to sort through and decide the fate of their contents.

And believe me when I say that the whole theme of letting go isn’t lost on me here. I’ve let go of nearly everything in the last year or so, and I understand that letting go of most of these things is profound—and that is part of the reason why it’s also profoundly difficult. I realize that when I’m on the other side of this, I’ll feel lighter, better, and all that jazz.

Right now, though…

This isn’t easy.

But I seem to be one of those people who is never content to remain idle or complacent. I must always be moving, and hopefully that movement is forward. I’m reminded of a rather clever and totally true bit that my friend Mark has said: consistent and constant personal growth requires daily discomfort.

It doesn’t have to be monumental every day—that would be too exhausting.

But it should be a stretch. It should at times be hard. And sometimes, it should be easier.

I am learning to be more fluid as I grow older. I am learning that it isn’t all about me, and if I truly want to reach higher, do better, and continue to grow, it’s going to be a little uncomfortable.

Another thing that makes me uncomfortable is asking for help. But I am doing that now…

If you have successfully done this sort of task before, and/or if you are an organized person brimming with ideas that would be easy and quick for a non-organized person to execute, please feel free to offer up some suggestions to make it feel slightly less like my heart being scraped over a cheese grater.

(And if you’re thinking of suggesting, “Just throw them all away!” I appreciate it, but if I had done that, I would have tossed out several irreplaceable and very meaningful things that have been mixed in with the randomness… things I thought I had lost forever, and after rediscovering them, I wept with joy. So tossing out all of these boxes without even glancing at their contents is not the best option at this point—although if this drags on for too long, I may resort to exactly that.)

What I've Learned About Faith

A couple of weeks ago, so much of my life was up in the air. I didn’t have transportation. I didn’t have a job. And the pending renewal of my condo lease was looming. If I couldn’t find a job and/or a roommate within a couple of weeks, I would be looking at finding a friend to stay with or moving back in with my parents.

Just the thought of going through moving (on top of everything else) made me sick to my stomach.

The Sunday night before selling my car was tough. It’s as if I stayed up as late as possible to try and put off the sun’s rising Monday morning, knowing what I would have to go through with—knowing that I would be selling my car. My one asset, the one thing remaining from my old life, but really, it was even more than that.

That car was part of my identity.

We had a good run... 

Letting go of it meant letting go of the last piece of my old identiy—one I had worked so hard to create: a delicate façade of trying to be a perfect wife, a perfect provider, a perfect friend, a perfect daughter, a perfect artist.

What I ended up becoming was a perfect failure.

Monday, February 6, inevitably arrived, of course. I hastily cleaned out my car, dumping all its contents into reusable grocery bags and hauling it upstairs.

(I might as well admit right here and now that all of the contents of my cubicle from my Frito-Lay days were still jostling around in the trunk.)

My friend David met me for breakfast where we talked about some things that were on both of our hearts, and then we headed to CarMax. The selling process was rather unceremonious, and I walked out of there with a bank draft.

My friend took me to the bank, where I deposited the check and then drafted a cashier’s check for my February rent.

Then, he dropped me off at home, where I waited for my landlord to stop by and pick up the check. When she arrived, I was very open with her. I told her I didn’t know what was going to happen—that I was doing the best I could do, and I had had some great interviews, but nothing had yet turned into an offer. I told her I wanted to do right by her and give as much notice as possible if I was going to have to move out. A lot would depend on the next couple of weeks.

She offered to go month-to-month for the same dollar amount until I got everything figured out. I think she appreciated my openness, and up until this point, I have been a perfect tenant.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

I didn’t know what was going on in the background as all of this transpired. I felt strangely peaceful.

As it turns out, a former colleague of mine had run into a former colleague of hers. And although I don’t know the exact timing, I’d like to think it was sometime around the sale of my car. Anyway, he mentioned the need for an Instructional Designer, and did she happen to know anybody?

Indeed, she did.

She recommended me and introduced us via LinkedIn that evening.

An hour later, he emailed me directly and asked if I could come in for an interview Tuesday or Wednesday.

I knew my friend David was going out of town Tuesday afternoon and had offered to loan me his car while he was gone. I asked for a Wednesday interview and sent my résumé over to him on Tuesday.

It’s interesting to note that on Tuesday, I met my friend Michael for lunch, and we talked about the Laws of Attraction. That evening, I started making a list of what I wanted—in a man, in a career, for myself, etc.

The important part of Laws of Attraction is also describing why you deserve the things you’re asking for… and to be sure to only ask when you’re in the right frame of mind—a genuine place, rather than a place of desperation or greed.

And, I realized a few things—that I have already tasted a lot of what I want, I just haven’t had a lot of it all together at one time. I also realized how far I’ve come, to dare and to believe I am worthy of all that my heart truly wants. It was a good feeling, and I went to bed feeling positive and hopeful.

On Wednesday morning, I got up and prepared… looked over all of my work and put some samples on a jump drive to show them. I thought about what I might say and what questions they might ask. I combed through their website. You know—all the usual interview-prep stuff.

I expected the interview to last an hour or a little longer. You know—the usual.

But, I ended up being there for over four hours. I met with the President and VP. I met with a main Project Coordinator and I met the other two Instructional Designers. I met a few other people, too. It felt like I was part of the team and that was my first day of work. I felt welcomed. I felt energized to finally find a small company that has a great business model that really works.

On Friday morning, I got the job offer!

That afternoon, I signed paperwork accepting the offer… just after signing a two-year renewal on my condo lease.

And, Saturday, I took care of the one missing piece: buying a car.

No longer did I have to settle for a cheap “cash car”. I could actually finance a car, and apparently I’ve done something right over the last year or so, because I managed to get a great interest rate.

So… I bought a 2009 Honda Accord.

I started my new job the following Tuesday, and I’m quite happy there. I didn’t just get any job, after all. I got a job that truly fits me and my personality. I fit, too. I get to use my strengths, my background, my education, and I get to work with great people in a great environment, too!

I feel pretty strongly that letting go of the Acura—the last piece of my old identity—was the very thing that set into motion the chain of events that happened within a span of just five days.

I’ve learned so much over the past few months—about myself, and about others. I have received an abundance of love, support, and energy. I’ve learned just how little money I really need.

There were times when I quite literally didn’t know where I would get the money to pay for my next meal, let alone my next bill. And yet, I didn’t ever truly go into panic mode. I found that in just the nick of time, I would get a donation for writing group, someone would buy a piece of jewelry, a friend would generously buy me dinner, or something else would happen and suddenly—I’d have $100 again.

I have learned the real value of money, and with all the time I’ve had on my hands—I’ve certainly had ample opportunity to examine my spending habits from the past. I realized that I spent entirely too much money on stupid things. That realization has helped me renew my focus, come up with a more realistic budget, and of course renew my awareness of where my money really goes.

I bought one thing in the last two or three months that I didn’t need. One. And that was BrenéBrown’s new book, The Gifts ofImperfection, which I recommend to everyone. (I bought it after hearing this awesome podcast, by the way.)

That’s pretty different for me. In the past—even when I was in a financial pinch—I would have found ways to spend money on stupid things like a new sweater or pair of shoes. I didn’t do that this time. I needed every dime I got to pay the phone bill or the grocery bill.

What I’ve learned about faith over the past few months is that I had to fully trust in God before I could have it. (Maybe that isn’t the case for you, but for me—it is.) I made that choice, to fully trust, back in December when I refreshed the Step Beyond training through Pathways. That was pivotal for me, and ever since December, I have felt a deep sense of peace.

Even through this crazy storm of my life, I have felt an underlying sense of peace. I did my part—looking for jobs, applying for jobs, asking for help, reworking my résumé over and over, connecting with people who might be able to help, and in the meantime continuing to pursue my passions so that I didn’t go completely insane.

And because I did my part, I was able to—somehow… let go of those things that were out of my control.

I took a leap… a leap of faith.

It didn’t feel like a leap, though. It felt like a daily practice, and there were some very dark days, to be sure.

Happy me, in my favorite shirt. It was my grandmother's.

But instead of turning completely inward during the darkness, I turned to God. I turned to friends and family. I turned to writing. I turned to all of the things that feed my soul, and I was never truly alone. I walked through this storm with dignity. I have emerged stronger and more solidified in my faith, with priorities revamped, focus restored, and a brand new appreciation for friends, family, and even acquaintances who have in one way or another been so willing to extend a helping hand… just for me.

To me, faith is a choice (and, like all things, it takes practice). But it is not a choice easily made, and I had to be in the right place, spiritually, to be able to make that choice.

I had to be on my knees. 

I have been through some of the most truly humbling experiences of my life over the past months, and I have learned so much along the way. But this time... instead of being knocked down to my knees by external forces, this was an inside job. I had to be willing to go to my knees myself. Humility was a choice. I recognize now that all of the lessons in humility that I've had over the past months (years?) led me to this point, so that I would have the courage to willingly go to my knees when it was time.

I believe faith is about stepping forward and doing something incredibly hard, and trusting that even when you have no clue what the outcome will be—you will be okay. For me, this time, it was the past few months culminating in the biggest leap of all—selling my car.

In my willingness to let go of control and trust that I would be okay, I gained deeper understanding of what it means to walk with God and to let Him carry me when I am too weak to take the steps myself.

And, truly, what I’ve learned over the past couple of years sank in, all the way to my core. I am loved. I am cared for. I am taken care of. I am not alone…

(These things are true for all of us, by the way.)

I am deeply grateful to accept these gifts and all the blessings I have received thus far.

I am drinking from my saucer, because my cup is overflowing.

What a Day.

It started last night, really. When I knew I needed to get to bed, and I also knew that today I would be making the trek to CarMax to hope for the best regarding an offer for my car.

My 2003 Acura RSX Type-S (6 speed manual)

I thought about the first memory of driving it off the lot, when my now ex-husband had the dealership put a giant red bow on the hood when we went to pick up the car… the smell of the leather when it was brand new, the way it handled so tight, the way I thoroughly enjoyed breaking in the engine and spreading her wings…

Over the years, that car has been more than just a mode of transportation. It’s more than just a possession to me. It’s more than a way of getting from A to B.

I’ve always loved driving, of course. It’s a passion for me. But with my Acura being my first brand new car, ever, it does and will always hold a very special place in my world. Perhaps for those of you who view a car as nothing more than a mode of transport, substitute whatever other passion you might have, and you might start to see my point.

I went to bed and ended up sobbing for a little while, knowing that while I am fully willing to let go of this possession, it’s still a grieving process that I have to endure.

I woke up with a heavy heart this morning.

I had a great writing (and talking, and sharing) session with John, who is my guinea pig writing coaching client. He and I have become great friends.

I’d like to share a couple of things I wrote during our time together this morning. It will make this particular blog post long, but no one has strapped you to the chair and forced you to read it, ya know?

I’m tired of thinking about it, but I need guidance. I have asked for help—from friends, trusted mentors, and of course from God. I am with Him. I can feel his hand on me, on my shoulder, even now. But I don’t yet have any answers, and that is what is painful. I have listened—sat in silence in my car, in my home… listening to music is almost too much for my brain and my heart right now. Silence is what calms me… deafens my deep interior.
And still, I have no answers. And still, I am uncertain of what tomorrow brings—let alone next week. I am scared, yes—and still I am finding a way to function, to take care of at least the bare minimum of what needs to be done. I am low down on Level 2 of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs right now. Hunkered down. On my knees… still. In a way I never have before, I am submitting. It’s worse than uncomfortable—it’s painful. And I know why it’s painful: I am resisting.
I am still fighting it in my own way—it’s like I’m that black knight in Monty Python & The Holy Grail. My legs and arms have been hacked off by a sword, and still, I’m arguing with King Arthur as he quasi-gallops away.
“Come back here, I’ll bite your legs off!”
It’s useless. I know. And I get now what it’s about… denial. I am still denying that this is all really happening. I am still denying that I may actually have to lose everything. I don’t feel that’s the case—I don’t feel like I should have to lose everything. Is it a sense of entitlement? I don’t think so, but maybe I’m wrong… certainly wouldn’t be the first time.
I guess what I need is… answers. I have asked questions and certainly not the questions I used to ask (Why me? Where is this God everyone talks about so much? Why do bad things happen to good people?).
No.
My questions are not so universal. Why me isn’t even in my vocabulary anymore.
I guess this feels… personal. Like maybe I’m not good enough for his favor.

I am sad that it's really come to this. That I really do have to sell my car. That I really am that broke, and that out of options.

That last line really stung, though. Even just to write it down was hard. I felt the resistance in my hand, but as tears welled up in my eyes, I knew I had to come clean with that level of honesty.

John reassured me that he saw faith in me. That even though I have these questions, there is still a peace about me that he hadn't seen before. I agree with him.

For whatever reason, I ended up writing the last piece in third person. Weirdly, it’s as if I was writing it as it was happening to me.

Naked. Nervous. Foreign.
She read those words on the page—the page that described her sudden clinging to Jesus, the page that she had written, and suddenly a calm washed over her that she wasn’t even aware she needed. Deeper than peace, and something certainly not sustained or maintained by her. No. Serenity comes directly from God.
And gaining the reassurance she needed, from her friend, and from her own words, from the voice deep within her and the voice in every particle of air around her, in every cell of her body, in her very DNA: God’s voice.
The answer had come.
She felt it then—the understanding that her next step was selling the car, and just as she’d been saying the few days before, she said again: “I can only handle one thing at a time right now. What is the next thing?”
Only the next thing.
It’s the tiny details of all that could happen and all that could go wrong. It’s one thought leading to another thought and then a flurry of thoughts after that—of the worst that could happen, and the striving, the fighting, the resisting of saying, “How do I prevent that worst thing from happening?”.
That’s where she got overwhelmed… when she tried to provide her own solution before it was time.
She got that now.

I wrote some more after John left, I had some lunch, and I finally made my way to CarMax.

I had a great experience at CarMax, and the guy could tell I have an emotional attachment to my car. I got a reasonable offer, and I’m going to go through with it on Monday… I just need my car through the weekend (and I need to clean it out, which I won’t get to do until Sunday evening).

On the way home, I felt the tears streaming down my cheeks and on a whim, I pulled into Bachman Lake to watch planes land and walk around and stare at the water.

I didn’t realize I was in for a little treat… a little distraction, even.

I ran into these four clowns. In a row.

Ducks in a row...

 For whatever reason, they immediately took an interest in me and started following me around.

I walked for a ways and stopped at the most magnificent pecan tree. It immediately catapulted me back to childhood and the giant pecan tree in the front yard of the house I grew up in—the one that was struck by lightning and was badly bruised for a while, but over time, it healed up and kept growing. I often leaned against that tree, marveled at the bark, and gazed up into its branches, wondering what the world might look like from way up there.

I leaned against this tree and felt its power. I let it hold me as I stared blankly out at the rippling water.

The ducks plopped into the water and swam down to where I walked. They swam down farther and then doubled back and got out of the water right in front of me.

I watched them for a while. They watched me for a while. But this one was really stuck on me, apparently. I’ll call him Rusty, because his coloring was a little different from the others. He stayed near me the whole time I was at the lake. He didn’t get in the water when the others did. He stayed on the ground about 20 feet from me. When the others got back out of the water, he came closer to me.

And when I started to leave, Rusty followed me.

And then the rest of the ducks joined him.

They meandered towards a patch of clover, and I stopped, again remembering my childhood and wondering how many hours I’d spent in my front yard, searching in vain for the ever-elusive four-leaf clover.

Rusty was intrigued that I squatted down to his level to take a picture of the clover, and he stood very still, very close in front of me for a full minute, looking at me, as if he was posing for me to take this picture. So, of course, I indulged him.

Rusty, striking a pose

I walked to my car to see if I had any nuts or other acceptable food with me, and I didn’t. I heard some geese making a bunch of commotion. These guys were chasing everybody around, honking their heads off.

Just as I thought about leaving, though, I saw this guy.

A lone swan amongst a bunch of noisy geese and ducks.

He swam right up to me, and for a minute I thought he was going to jump out of the lake. He didn’t… but he did this funky thing with one of his webbed feet, sticking it out straight, above the water. I looked down at my hand and stretched my fingers wide, and realized that his foot was as big as my whole hand.

Yeah. That dude was big!

I realized today that I am taken care of. All of my needs are met. It felt like Rusty the duck was a little angel hanging around me, making sure I was okay. The pecan tree welcomed me, supporting not only my physical weight, but my emotional weight, too. And the clovers made me smile…

And the kindness of the CarMax salesman, and the sweet words John said to me earlier today, and the messages of support and love from other friends… all carried me through this difficult day.

And while I feel particularly emotionally drained…

Yes… I am okay.

And tomorrow is another day, where I will only be concerned with the very next thing in front of me.