"Why not be sure of it...?"

To all of us the thought of heaven is dear--
Why not be sure of it and make it here?
No doubt there is a heaven yonder too,
But 'tis so far away--and you are near.

I am a marvelous procrastinator. Sensational. Writing papers in undergrad, going to the dry cleaners, and things that I thought would be unpleasant. But I've been realizing more and more lately that by putting off something I think might make me sad or angry, I am actually letting those feelings fester by putting it off.

I grew up in a cluttered home. My mother would always tell me that my father was a pack rat, that he saved everything. In hindsight, I think we were both, actually, trying to save my father. Bits and pieces of his life, of a man who I did not know, who died when I was so young... if he had saved them, we clung to them with a desperation that makes me sad now. There were boxes upon boxes in our garage of receipts from his days as a landlord. My parents had sold the property years before his death, even, and these papers were of no use to anyone, seemingly. Yet they were not useless to my mother, who could imagine, perhaps, his steady hand as she gazed upon his impeccable script.

When I moved to Chicago, my mother was remarrying and also moving. She didn't talk much about the process of throwing away all of that stuff, but I can't imagine it was easy. Happy as she was with her new husband and her new life, there's a part of her that will always love my father. Throwing some of those things away was a real admission: that part of my life is truly over, and we're moving on. Here we go.

Tonight I spent over an hour cleaning out and reorganizing the kitchen. The task had been started a few months ago, and as I knew would happen, the boyfriend and I found things from my old life. These things made me angry, throwing old junk into the trash with force, and some of the things made me sad, turning my face to blink away tears. I'd put off cleaning the rest for this very reason. Stuck in those drawers are memories and betrayals and regrets and the reminders of a life I very actively opted out of. The boyfriend knows that, and he has been so patient, so loving, and so understanding as he watches me wade through old things. Truly. But last night, we hosted Thanksgiving here for some of our friends. And it all felt so right. It was the life I had always wanted, surrounded by friends in a home I share with someone I love that is full of books and maps and dog hair and laughter. So today, I took the plunge.

I made snap decisions, ruthlessly tossing papers and photos. It's been over a year since my ex moved out, and here I am, still afraid of the monster in the closet, in the cardboard boxes, in garbage bags. So I dug in, and I realized the difference between the drawers of my mother's home and the drawers in mine. While she was trying to hold onto something, I was trying to forget about it. To get rid of it, I would first have to unearth it, consider it, see it. That's really all divorce is anyway. For me, at least. Going over the past, trying to undo it, and then realizing that you can't. So, you hide it. But it always spills out. No drawer is that big.

I live in 650 square feet. My storage unit in the basement is 8x8. I didn't think there were too many places for the past to lurk. Wrong. So wrong. When he first moved out, I tied everything he left into garbage bags and put them in the storage unit. I couldn't face them yet. Earlier this year I went through a painful three hours of sorting it all out for donation, coming unglued when I found the suit he wore to our wedding crumpled on the cement floor. But I did it. And then I made sure the closet in the bedroom had been exorcised. Then the bathroom cabinet. Then the hope chest. The storage unit needs one more go, as I became emotionally exhausted the last time. But I did the kitchen tonight. So I estimate about one more hour.

One hour. Just one.

I love my life. I have never been so happy. This is not a reluctance to let go of the past, but a strong urge to stop confronting it. I want it to be gone. I want it erased. The happier I am, the more I realize how unhappy I was. I don't like the person I am in those memories, and am much more inclined to spend time with this new version of myself, as duct tape and cabinet doors hold back the old. I kept saying "later." But why? Later never comes. I have a very clear picture in my mind of what that magical "later" looks like, and otherwise, I've done a great job creating it. So let's go. Full throttle.

I'm promising myself that it will be done by next week.