by Lucretia Robison

I broke my hand this summer.

I had fallen because I wasn’t my best self that day. I was burnt out. I had put “schedule vacation” on every to-do list I created this year. It was the one thing that kept getting postponed. When I fell, landing in the water I was attempting to cross, my first thought was, “Oh, no, it can’t be broken,” followed by lifting my hand out of the water and seeing it was quite clearly broken.

My second thought was, “Well, now I can schedule that vacation.” I’m not ashamed to say the tired part of me felt relief.

A friend had been offering a stay at her beach house in Neptune Beach, Florida. After a couple of weeks of recovery time, I was fitted with a waterproof cast and I hit the road.

The house was a lovely, comfortably furnished cottage with everything I needed for the week. The space was so clear. No clutter. Just enough. The first few days were rainy, and I was happy just being in the house most of the time. Being in a totally clear space was serene.

#Lettinggoofallthatdoesntserveme has been my mantra since 2014, and there have been some life-changing actions resulting from that mantra. You’d think I live in a clear space by now. No. That is not the case.

I have let go of most, but I still had a lot: relics of a marriage to a man with tendencies toward hoarding, responsibility for sentimental family heirlooms, furniture from the clinic I closed, camping gear in case I ever need shelter, jars that I’d lost the lids to, jars still with lids ranging from 1 to 64 ounces, because waste bothers me.

I keep it picked up and clean enough, but I know how much I don’t actually use. My counters are currently full of stuff I use daily, and the cupboards are full of stuff I “might use someday.”

The thought of dumping my mother’s 48-year-old wheat grinder makes me sad. I can still smell and taste her fresh-baked bread made with fresh-ground wheat every day. That’s what Mormon pioneering, creating, exploring, surviving, serving, worship- ping, living, breathing women did. They made bread. And blankets. And babies. They made me.

I am allergic to bread. I am allergic to wheat and the mill still has her flour in it. I sneeze when I look inside it. It sits as merely a reminder of her. It’s not like I can ever stop remembering her. I think of her every day.

I have my father’s ties. These ties I gently fingered as an infant and toddler, admired and gifted on holidays as a growing child. They covered the heart that as a teenager and young adult I thought was stone cold. I tried donating them last year, only to end up in a puddle of tears because he was still living, and it just seemed wrong.

I have crocheted blankets and old-fashioned quilts from my maternal line. I have boxes of memorabilia of deceased family members, from both happy and sad times.

I have my grandma’s marbles. They’re cool. I’m keeping them. Losing grandma’s marbles wouldn’t be cool. Pun intended. I wonder if I can make earrings with them.

One thing I don’t have is clarity. I know who I am and what my goals are. I’m unclear in thought processes that will lead me there. These material things in front of me are losing value; they are impeding my progress and I need to finally let go. Not by clearing a corner. Not by cleaning one closet. I need to overhaul. I need to leap far beyond the baby steps and run toward clarity.

I hope these vintage things that my family has valued so much make it onto a movie set. It’s likely, being here in Y’allywood. Perhaps they will find their way into the home of someone who will value them. Perhaps they will become recycled materials and come back to me as the paper I write my best- seller on. Where it ends up shouldn’t concern me. My only job is to clear my space so that I can live my best life.

Soon, there will be a new me.

Peace, love and clarity to you, wherever you are.

Lucretia Robison is a licensed massage therapist, Emory University trained health coach and blogger. If you have a personal story of awakening that you’d like to share in Walking Each Other Home, please contact [email protected].