I stopped sending essays one night in February, when these words unexpectedly spilled out onto the page: I AM THE REAL CLUTTER. I AM MISERABLE, BEING CLUTTER. I DO NOT WANT TO BE CLUTTER. I DO NOT KNOW HOW TO STOP BEING CLUTTER.
I froze, stunned at the revelation. So the floor is mopped. The shelves, emptied. What is the point of a shiny sink, de-cluttering all of this junk, when the real junk is me? I am junk in a relationship that keeps me until a newer, younger upgrade comes along. I am junk to financial institutions I cannot repay. Junk, in the work that I do; a neophyte, dependent, dispensable, unable to fill my own needs. If I am not loved, not needed, if my usefulness has passed –am I no more worthy than a piece of clutter?
Feeling like a FLYING FRAUD, the prison doors slammed shut.
Why am I clutter? I have made myself clutter, for the same reasons I had clutter. To hold what I can no longer have. Distrustful, that the future can be as good as the past. Blinded, to what is alive in the present moment. Unwilling to admit that who I used to be, what I used to afford, is different. Ignoring that others have changed – that my love, use and need, once valued, has faded away.
It is trying to rescue yesterday that turns me into clutter. It is yesterday, that defrauds today. But – yesterday never really returns. I cannot undo financial decisions. I cannot undo age. I cannot undo injury and illness.
These words, I AM CLUTTER; A FLYING FRAUD – did not come forth to imprison me. They came, to free me from the prison of being clutter. They came, to release me. I learn, the keys to freedom have been in my pocket all along – I just need to reach the door.
It is a process, to release myself, just as it was to release physical clutter. It did not work, to proclaim: I AM NOT CLUTTER, I AM NOT A FLYING FRAUD, then open the door and soar. Sometimes, I make one exhausting crawl forward in the direction of the door. When even that is not possible, when I cannot even see the door through my tears, I finally find the words to freedom in a simple prayer – There is a door. I hold the keys. Help me, to reach the door. Help me, to FLY.
It is not my wings that lift me to the door – it is the wings of the Angels within every God Breeze.
Today, I am a little bit free. Tomorrow, I am a little bit freer.
There is a door. I hold the keys. The God Breeze takes me to where I alone cannot go. This is all I need to believe, to FLY.
Susan M. Lamonica