The Basement Excavation: Facing Grief and Finding Treasure

The Basement Excavation—Day #17

So far I’ve been faithful to my commitment to go through two boxes each day. There is a growing stack of empty boxes in one corner. I hope that empty stack continues to grow but not every box gets thrown. Though clearing is the ultimate goal, throwing it all out is not the immediate goal. The idea is to go through everything, taking the time to painstakingly acknowledge all of it and get a grip on the reality of what IT really is.

In some cases, I’ve been able to throw a whole box right away. I am grateful for those easy ones, where the choice is obvious. In others, I’ve opened, looked through a few things and said, “Okay, I’m not ready for that one until later.” This is an acceptable response but I know eventually I will have to deal with those too. And then there have been those moments of profound encounter with something deep within.

Case #1: A gift from Dad

Two weeks ago, on a Saturday, I was leading a writing workshop on journaling. As part of my presentation I told those who came about what I had learned from my dad about the Lord’s Prayer. I was telling them how he used to encourage people to use the Lord’s Prayer to pray about specific things in their life. The next day I am down in the basement. I open a box and sitting right on top is the old Lutheran Standard article which my dad wrote about just that. With tears of gratitude I grabbed the article, and closed the rest of the box (for now). It was if Dad was encouraging me, letting me know he was happy to share this gift with me. I scanned it into my computer for future reference and to save it in new way. I have no idea what will happened to that article in the next generation but by then I will have shared it with many and the ripples will be enough inheritance to share.

Case #2: Encountering Hans 15 years later

Just a few days ago, I had a really busy day but in the free hour that I had I decided to suck it up and head down to do a few boxes. I saw an unmarked box in the middle of the room and wanted to have an idea what was in it. Initially unreachable, I climbed and squeezed in to where I could get a look. I opened the box and there was Hans’ stuff. As the tears started to form, I sifted through the random collection of junk. I have begun to notice that the more ridiculous the item, the more it triggers my grief. Why? Because the ridiculous stuff, the stuff that holds no intrinsic value is there only because my son cared about it. This box of apparent nothingness is classic Hans. And yet we still have to let go of most of it. Letting go brings a new wellspring of grief…that very really emotion as we experience the physical separation once again. I can’t express enough how physical grief really is.

Initially I find it odd and unsettling that such a box of junk can mean so much to me but there it is. Without the physical connection to my son, these stupid little things taking up space clearly give me a sudden material connection to the reality of my sons’ life before and now.

The sudden desire to speak to him, to see him in the flesh again is unbearable and the tears are unstoppable. This is the part of de-cluttering that takes more than determination and a good self-help book to conquer. This takes a breath and a prayer and some emotional support. Here I must stand with the grief, allow the tears and honor the pain as well as the joy. I may have to take a couple days to process before I am ready to let go. I may need to bring my husband alongside for this part of the journey. And even so, there is hope just in the fact that I am able to choose this work. 

The Basement Excavation: A family history of saving and grief.

Ash Wednesday was ten days ago and much like many other people I've decided to try a new spiritual practice during the 40 days of Lent that follow it. I've decided to practice getting rid of things, letting go of the past, letting go of stuff, and in some cases letting go of commitments. this is a very personal journey. It is not the first time I've told myself, I am going to de-clutter; I'm going to let go. "Easier said than done" is understatement.

Looking back on a history of family saving
I was born into a family of savers (some might call them pack rats). There were some very logical and practical reasons for the saving over the generations. We didn't have much money. My mom had grown up moving around a lot.  Our family, in turn, also moved a lot, traveled a lot. Along the way, as you travel, you collect things. My parents were missionaries on the island of Madagascar so we couldn't just run to the store for new things. We were thrifty, using the same clothes, books, toys over and over again. We saved them, took care of them and were able to enjoy them for more than one generation. This served my family well for a long time. it was a good habit that taught us to be good stewards of what we had. It also taught us to save things we would never need to use again.

In addition, there are family historians on both sides of my family; in particular my mom's side. Before the dawn of the digital age, these ancestors, including my grandfather, kept diaries, extensive family tree information, took wonderful photographs and slides and even wrote books. My grandfather had a habit of saving all his correspondence (every letter he wrote or received) some of which serve to narrate his family relationships.  He wrote about 40 books, most not published but there are copies for his children. He had his own library. So for my siblings and I, our inheritance consisted mainly of a shed full of books, letters, photographs, slides and boxes with various sentimental and practical things that my parents thought we would use after they were done with it. They meant well. Our parents were trying to help and somehow, as the youngest child, it all ended up in my lap, my basement. And I added some of my own.

Storing my Grief
Over the years I have explored several theories and justifications and analysis for the behavior of hanging on to stuff. The reason that stands out above the rest is grief. I was born in Madagascar, spending most of my time in an Eden-like setting on the southern tip of the island with vacations with my parents in the capital city. For me Ft. Dauphin and Tananarive, Madagascar are my home towns, but there is no home in either one of them to go back to. So when I left, I took what i could with me and hung on to those possessions, notes, diaries, photographs with all my might. I took my home with me. When my parents died, I welcomed their treasures from those places too. It was then I realized they had been taking a piece of home along with them too.

Grief, in its darkest moment, is the excruciating pain of separation from those people and places you love. It makes sense to me then that in those darkest days of grief, we just hung on to what we could of those lost relationships, those lost places.

When I was 17 I left my home in Madagascar for the last time. I have never been back. When I was 27 my dad died. When I was 41 my third son Hans died of brain cancer. Six months later, my best friend died. Several years later my mom died. With each death, each separation, each new wound of grief, I hung on to the pieces of those places and relationships that I could, much like my parents and grandparents had before. And all the while the basement filled up with my grief.

By the time I was in a better place, I didn't want to return to the boxes, the stuff I had stored. I just wanted to live in the joy that I could. Above ground, above the grief, I went on with my life (a pretty joyful life) but every time I walked through the basement, I was reminded. The pile was growing and it was serving me less and less.

So here I am, years later. The boys are grown up and have homes of their own. Pete and I are grandparents. It's Day #11 of my commitment. I've gone through at least 2 boxes each day. Pete is making the first haul to the thrift store. Our recycling container is full. There is a long, long way to go. I've done the easy stuff first. But there is hope.

There is hope.

Prelude to the Basement Excavation project.

Introduction: On February 10, Ash Wednesday, I made a commitment to dig in and clean out all the stuff in my basement. I've been putting it off for a long time and it seems like Lent is as good a time as any to make this attempt. I'm petrified and I'm determined. I thought I'd share some thoughts about the process along the way. If you believe in prayer or wishes, please send some courage my direction. Thanks, Jules

The Basement Excavation: Prelude

I take a few steps down, turn and go back up.
can I? once I start, will I have the strength? the courage to finish?
It will be an even bigger mess before I get to the good part.
I will have to face my grief, my nostalgia, my sentimentality.
I will have to face my tears.
Can I? Will I?
I really want to.
I really need to.
It feels like it is time.
I start down the stairs again, determined to go all the way down.
I wander around the boxes, overwhelmed as usual.
"Break it down" they always say as if it's that easy.
"Do it in small chunks" they say as if I even know what the chunks are.
"if you haven't used it in a year, you don't need it." they say, a saying which totally ignores all the precious relationships those things represent
People think stored stuff is just about cleaning.
It is much more than that.
No one tells you how to deal with the grief when it rises.
no one tells you how to let go.
It's like diving off the high dive.
I suspect I'll survive but I'm not sure it will feel as exhilarating as they say.
I open my first box and surprisingly find something I can toss right away.
There is hope.

God help me...
Here I go....beginning to uncover more than a decade of stuff buried in my basement.

I mean it God...Please help me!

a beach sabbath

(In Feburary, 2016 Pete & I spent 8 days on vacation in Ixtapa, Mexico. 
This is a reflection of that experience)

a beach sabbath

sitting on the beach

the angle of the afternoon sun

reveals stardust in the sand

tiny bits of bright shiny stars beneath my feet

and on the surface of the sea too

tiny bits of stars reflect back the light

the earth is breathing

a slight ocean breeze running through our lungs

teasing our hair, gently caressing our skin

the rhythm of the waves crashing 

echoes the heartbeat

i breathe deeply,

feeling even my fingertips relax

my main appointment of the day 

is to show up for the sunset

to sit up then and bear witness 

to the nearly unbearable beauty

of each day as it comes to a close

this is vacation

this is sabbath

this is rest, renewal down to the deepest molecule of my heart

it took some time to get to this moment

the first day I was still reading, checking emails

trying to catch up on even fun activities

by day three i was staring more and more 

at sand, the sea, the sky

an abashed, shameless staring

I can't and don't look away

I forgot my books, my list

I have no place to be, 

no need to be anywhere else

I don't know what we will do next

and it doesn't matter

by day six, that's today,

I have left most of my "activities" 

in our hotel room

my reading list can wait

the internet at the hotel stops working

almost as if the universe senses

our complete surrender

now sitting on the beach

the sand lures me with its patterns

and then the sparkling stardust there

catches my eye and then my heart

while i have forgotten the clock 

and the computer

i have remembered my connection to the universe

i have remembered my heartbeat

i have remembered the earth, the sun, the air and warmth

I am lost and found in this moment

connected once again to my soul