Project Letting Go

Life has been getting a little too heavy lately. Things not going as smoothly as I would like. Stress is rising. Our house still not on the market. 

It became uninhabitable in December due to the removal of our toilet which, thanks to an incompetent project manager appointed by our insurance company, is still unresolved. Unbelievable.

On Monday I received a phone call from my 10-year old nephew. 

“Zia (aunty), do you want to come with us to Funfields?” - a water park an hour north of Melbourne.

My heart said yes but my head said no. 

It was a weekday. I was leaving the country in a fortnight. I had too much work and too many boxes to tick.

“I’d love to Teague but Zia... has to be a good girl”. 

His response startled me. He challenged me... to be a naughty girl.

I accepted the challenge.

Within minutes I sent my work colleagues an explanatory email before packing my laptop in amongst a towel, sunscreen, sunglasses and swimming costume. I was out of the house and bound for Funfilelds within an hour.

What followed was a day full of (...wait for it...) - Fun!

Spending time with my nephew, his 7-year old sister, her school friend and my brother was nothing short of restorative. My heart filled with joy with bellyfuls of laughter as we splashed around and played.

That night I had the best sleep in weeks (months). Long, uninterrupted, restful sleep. It was delicious.

When I got out of bed I had a renewed energy, passion and focus. As a result, I ticked off some major boxes and it reminded me of Abraham Lincoln’s ‘Sharpening The Axe’ quote. We all need to take time to sharpen our axes so that we can efficiently chop wood. 

This lead me to the childhood song “There’s a hole in my bucket”, which needed to be fixed by straw, that needed to be cut by an axe, that required sharpening by a stone, but the stone was too dry. 

I learned that instead of fetching water with a holey bucket, we can take the stone to a water park in order to sharpen the axe - then we can easily cut the straw to fix the holes in our buckets.

I fear these words the most. 

While they're meant for the person we're saying goodbye to, they leave me in a state far from restful and certainly not in peace.

I wonder if this is the root of many problems. 

Fear of letting go. 

What am I afraid of? 

I go back the my first memorable experience of death. I was 5. 

My trip back in time is not to dwell, but to look for clues that might unblock the stagnation of the present and open the doors to my future.

I have a memory that flickers like a Super 8 film. It is silent. Just pictures.

Dad walks in through the back door. He’s stooped low. He shakes his head. I can't make out what he is saying. Mum lets out a high pitched scream that pierces the silence. She collapses on the couch. 

I am confused. What's happening?

Dad asks me to get a glass of water. I go to the sink and stand on my tip toes to reach the tap. I fill the glass and take it to them. I offer the glass. Dad reaches out to receive it, but Mum rejects it. I have never seen her like this before.

I am confused. What's happening?

Fast forward time. 

I am in Grade 2, the morning before school. I am making my bed. I think of him and it hits me. I will never see him again. Never be lifted to his chest and reach into his pockets and draw out lollies. This beautiful jolly man, my Babbononno - gone. Forever.

I burst into tears. 

My first heartbreak.

In life we learn what causes us pain and take measures to prevent it from happening again. 

Light bulb moment: 

In life we learn what causes us pain and take measures to prevent it from happening again.

Could my fear of death be so deep and strong that it stopped my ovaries from creating life? Am I the cause of my own barrenness? Is fear really that powerful?

This weekend brought about the perfect storm. I saw the dark threatening clouds rolling in and thought I had done enough to avert it. I was wrong.

It struck me, as if by lightening. Just as the day I was making my bed before school, I let go. Floods of tears, wailing, sobbing and more tears. I had no strength or will to hold it back. I let it go. And go. And go. Gone.

I was up at 3am this morning. I felt calm but I could not rest. 

Unlike handwriting, typing involves both of my hands. Each has a role in taking dictation; one from my head and the other from my heart. 

At 3:30am I opened my laptop and tapped the keys for 90 minutes.

We did it. 

We had the Garage Sale yesterday.

I was pretty happy with the volume of stuff I let go of. It was mostly easy. However that was not the REAL test. I still have a storage container full of memorabilia, collectables and unfulfilled dreams.

Decluttering one's life is like detoxifying one's body. If our cells were to release all the toxins stored in their protective walls at once, we would die. 

(It's true, just ask Kathryn Alexander)

A healthy body will release toxins at a rate that it can manage - should we declutter at a similarly manageable rate?

When I first glanced at these Italian books buried in a box of paperbacks, I was more than happy to let them go. However when I noticed my early handwriting on them - the game changed, and I was challenged. 

I felt a familiar tugging.

I wanted to let go (there and then) for the sheer sake of letting go. But is letting go for letting go's sake setting me up for future heartache? 

I felt myself go into an inner dialogue;

"I have let go of so many things, these books are practical. Maybe Patrick will learn Italian from them" 

"No they're not and no he won't"

"But... I only want two books out of hundreds - and they don't take up too much space"

"This is a pattern we're trying to break, and holding onto these books isn't going to help"

"But... look at these illustrations, these books are works of art"

"No they're not - they're memories of after school Italian classes, daylight savings and jellybean roman sandals, and your first innocent kiss with a boy that is no longer alive"

"But... they have my handwriting on them. MY handwriting. From when I was little"

"Shit!  Shit shit shit shit shit shit... Put them aside and let me think about it"

"I could give them to one of my nephews or nieces - especially if they want to learn Italian one day. And they would (probably) love the fact that there's Zia's handwriting on them from when Zia was a little girl"

"Sounds like a surefire way to create mini-hoarders to me. Do you really want to do that?"

"But... surely we can keep something from the past - just not everything (?)"

"Oh god, I don't know. I'm only new at this job. We'll put them aside for now and revisit later"

And so that's how that one played out.

Some time ago I decided that I wanted to bring life to my lyrics (I wrote a song in 2008 and have been too afraid of rejection to pursue its coming to life).

In my search to become a lyricist - I found this website. Though country music is not something I listen to in my spare time, I do think that many of my stories would make great tear-jerking country songs.

Something landed in my inbox today that caught my attention. A song-writing competition that needed to be in by tomorrow.

So instead of going to bed early to rest before our G-day tomorrow, I sat at my computer at 10pm and wrote a song. As you do.

I immediately sent it to a friend whose opinion I highly value. Then something hit me. I needed to let go.

I decided I needed to enter it immediately. Without feedback. Without approval. Without direction. Without support. Without validation. Without making it perfect.

Right there and then, I had to let go.

So it's done. 

I have officially written and entered a country song for a Nashville song writing competition. 

No more to say today.

I had a meeting on the other side of town today. 

I jumped on Mum's old bike and weaved in and out of streets till I found myself just a few hundred metres from where I once worked. 

I had to stop.

This building once housed a Country Road seconds and samples store. I had secured a job as a sales assistant here after my first (ever) job interview. It was my debut employment outside of our family's business. 

I was 19 years old when I first I walked through those doors.

A brand new chapter in a whole new world 

What courage and conviction I had back then. Leaving the security of our family's business to venture out into unknown. 

No looking back. 

A gutsy act of letting go.  

I find myself, a quarter of a century later, almost paralysed by the accumulation of emotional clutter in the form of fear, uncertainty, sadness, grief, worry and self-doubt. I was unprepared for the amount of emotional sludge to arise through the process of selling our (intended) family home. It's confronting. 

Today I am looking back. 

Not to dwell, but to be inspired. 

May the spirit of my past ignite the soul to my future. 

It's funny the things you find. 

Then lose again.

Then find.

Then lose.

It can go on like this for years. Decades.

This $10 paper bill has been coming in and out of my life since circulation ceased in 1993. Its appearance is always a surprise. Even the digital version.

Interestingly, this banknote fails to occupy any space on my emotional (or fiscal) hard drive. It's of low value both sentimentally and financially and, as a consequence, I never know where it is (hence the perpetual surprises).

Is this damaging? 

Keeping something of little value (on any scale)? 

Is this the foundation of compulsive hoarding? 

The thought alarms me.

With this new insight, I must approach letting go decisions with awareness. Things of little value should not be difficult to release. If they are, I may have a bigger problem on my hands. 

Last night we had our Primary School Reunion.

Yes, PRIMARY school.

The second reunion in as many years (after a 30-year hiatus). 

I could go on for hours, days, about how amazing it is to reconnect with those that we shared our playful, uncomplicated, prepubescent years with. But for today, I want to focus on one person in particular.

Wayne Cooper.

Since graduating primary school in 1982 I had lost contact with all but two students, of which neither were Wayne. Memories faded as I eagerly raced towards adolescence and adulthood, I had no desire to go 'back'. 

There was one person, however, whom I wondered about. Wayne Cooper. On random occasions, he'd pop into my head and leave me curious about whatever happened to him. 

But why, above everyone else, Wayne Cooper? 

We were buddies, sure, but there were so many other people that wore my best friend badge throughout those formative years. We didn't fall in puppy love, our families didn't know each other and we didn't live in the same street - so why Wayne?

Soon after our 30-year reintroduction, we enquired about each other's teachers to see what classes we shared. It turned out that we were together in Grades 1, 2, 3, 4 and 5 (pretty impressive considering I did Grade Prep at another school). I can't think of another individual that I would have been consistently in the presence of for (approximately) 7-hours a day, 5 days a week, 38 weeks per year, over 5 consecutive years from 1977 to 1981.

What marvels me is that for someone with such attached memories, I was oblivious to the fact that Wayne and I had shared that much time together. He was a constant in my fledgling years, like the vanity set on my Queen Anne dressing table. Always there.

By the time I was slipping my feet into heels, I was of the belief that I had put my childish primary past behind me. Yet Wayne's guerrilla ambushing of my thoughts would prove otherwise.

After three decades of trying to figure out what it is to be a grown up (which by the way, is not much clearer to me now than what it was in 1977), something happened when I reconnected with Wayne. 

I felt the same burst of delight that I would feel when my grandparents surprised us with late-night visits in the middle of summer bearing sweet, refreshing and sticky icy-poles (popsicles / ice lollies). 

Pure. 

Unadulterated. 

Joy. 

Having known Wayne since the age of six, then spending the next five years together in the same classroom, an invisible bungee cord must have been woven between us then and now. It took all but half a nanosecond to be flung into feelings of childlike rapture and free spirited joy, sans awkwardness.

With this in mind, I must remind myself that Project Letting Go is not about throwing the proverbial baby out with bathwater. It is about letting go of things, fears, pain and notions that hold me back. It's not about severing ties that might propel me forward. 

Today was meant to be G-Day (Garage-sale Day). 

However Patrick has been feeling unwell lately, and the idea of proceeding on a day forecast to be 36°C (96°F) was too much even to think about.

Too much. 

So we decided to postpone it.

This morning we both awoke feeling deflated. In an attempt to perk ourselves up, we set on a pedalling adventure to nearby Carlton for coffee made by Italians ‘fresh off the boat’ - as Pat would say. A great place, with a great vibe, and coffee that takes you back to Italy in a single sip.

On the way, we passed the cemetery where my great grand parents are buried (Dad’s Mum’s parents). Though we had no plans to stop, I couldn’t help but phone Mum for directions. “Turn right at the Elvis memorial that looks like a grotto, and it’s on the left about 150m”.

An Elvis memorial grotto? Why do I have no memory of this, considering it’s been there since 1977? I regularly visited my maternal grandfather’s neighbouring grave since he departed two years prior the King, and before being relocated to another place of rest at the turn of the millennium. Babbo-Nonno, as we lovingly called him, would always have pockets full of lollies (candy) - mainly lemon sherbets. What I find fascinating is how I can remember details from when I was barely five, yet I cannot remember an Elvis memorial grotto that stood like a monument on the corner of the road that lead to Babbo-Nonno’s grave for years thereafter. It’s amazing what memories we keep and which ones we allow to fade. Hmmm…. ‘twould appear I have digressed.

We reached my great grandparents' grave, and I burst into tears. 

I had a flashback. 

It was 1992 when I arrived in Rome, aged 21. Knowing that my 96-year old great grandmother was unwell, I called home (reverse charge on a pay phone) to let my parents know that I had arrived safely and would be going to ‘The Vatican’ to light a candle and say a prayer for Mammina Assunta. I thought that being so close to the Pope, my prayers would surely be heard and she would be saved. 

But I was too late. She had already gone.

Instead of heading to Vatican City, I headed south to my family’s village - San Marco in Lamis. I was taken aback when I arrived there. Many of the street walls were adorned with dozens of customary mourning posters bearing my great grandmother’s name and the dates of her birth and death. It was too much.

Too much.

Back at the cemetery I realised that today was a G-Day after all; visiting my Great Grandparent's Grave (via the Grotto), I released some residual Grief that had been laying dormant for 23 years. 

After that, I was Good… and so was the coffee sip to Italy.

Following yesterday’s post I realised that it’s not the first time I’ve used something new to reconnect me with something old. 

I once had a fabulous vintage bone-handled paring knife that belonged to my Nonno. Somehow I lost it. Probably in a pile of carrot shavings destined for the bin. 

When I saw these knives in the Catalonian town of Solsona, they immediately reminded me of my Nonno’s knife. So I purchased one. 

Later that year I was without it for 6-months and missed it beyond words. So I purchased another so I could have one in each home. (I know I sound awfully posh by saying I live 6-months in Australia and 6-months in France - but it’s true. And I’m not posh). 

I revisited Solsona again last year (the home of my dear friend Liza), and a second knife was bought. Little did I know that my mother would gift me one too. 

So now I have three. 

Each have their own story and are as practical, and sharp, as the other. 

I think letting go of things is so much easier if you replace them with stories. Happy stories.

Each one of these knives deserves a place in my knife block. They are excellent. Yet they’re not only useful, they are a chapter in a story that enriches my life. 

If something old, makes you blue. Tweak the concept, remake it new.

My grandparents had the best set of flying ducks on their bathroom wall (similar to, but not exactly like, the ones pictured above left).

They were rare. Black. Lustrous. Beautiful. I never (not even with Google) have seen anything like them before, or since.

Since?

Since when?

Since they crashed and exploded into a million pieces when my grandparents remodelled their bathroom two or three decades ago.

D.E.V.A.S.T.A.T.E.D.

For years thereafter I searched high and low. In every op shop, garage sale, collectables store, old ladies handbags and deceased estates (okay the last two are not true, but I would’ve if I could’ve). 

This year we moved into a spanking brand new apartment. I wanted to adorn a wall with flying ducks. I knew I could never replace what was lost. Ever. Those ducks (the best ones ever) are long gone.

The biggest thing I've let go of, in the process of presenting you this photo, was the need to iron the never-been-used tea towel. Major breakthrough.

Major. 

Breakthrough. 

(Just in case you missed it the first time).

I fought with myself for quite some time as I was attempting to randomly position the equally random kitchen objects on a kitsch backdrop.

What I'm noticing since commencing 'Project Letting Go' a whole four days ago, is that I am not only letting go of things. I have found myself consciously releasing perfectionism, fears, habits, notions and the need to know everything. 

Like what on earth are half of these items, how did I end up with them and why do I still possess them (or do they possess me)?

I guess that's the bonus of starting any project that's remotely challenging. You open up yourself to a whole new world of learning, exploration and growth.