If you are over 21, you have baggage.
Literally and figuratively.
Old relationships… old gifts received from loved ones.

I have every photo of all of my college friends’ children that they have sent me over the years. I have never met these children. But I have given them space in my life.

I attach meaning to these things… to gifts. I have wonderful things I feel I can’t throw away because of who they came from.

I have my Grandmother’s couch, my Great-Grandmother’s rocking chair, my Grandfather’s pots and pans, several quilts my Grandmother made for me, my children’s first outfits… the list goes on and on.

One of the best coaching questions I ask is, “So, what are you making that mean?”

Clearly, I am making it mean that if I give away the apron my Grandmother used to wear, I am giving away some of her love.

But held up to the light of day, of course that’s not true. My Grandmother is not an apron or a lumpy couch. And at the end of the day, I would like to keep at least one thing she gave me. But they are just things.

I prefer carrying with me the confidence my Grandmother gave me because she thought I could hang the moon. I carry with me the love of walking my Grandfather gave me.  For some physical things I take a photo and tuck that away.

As things have built up in my house, that clutter of objects gets in the way of the good things with which I want to fill my life. It robs me of time as I shift things around or (ugh) clean them.

Clearing out the clutter gives me a sense of freedom.
That freedom feels like a weight being lifted off my shoulders and my heart.

It’s going slowly, but I am filling my life with things that give me joy and letting the rest go to someone who could really use it.
I have chosen to throw out the pictures of my friends’ children. I have given my children’s crib to a woman who needs it now. I am making space for joy.

Bring it on, Christmas!

Alzheimer’s can seem like a very sad disease. My Dad and Grandmother had it for the same eight years.

As I visited them, I could see their brains losing their connections. Their brains were unlearning things in the reverse order they learned them. It was like the clock was moving their brains backwards, but no one had notified their bodies.

I remember the day I visited Grandma and offered to read from the latest large print Reader’s Digest to her. She cheerily said I was welcome to read, but that she would forget what was at the top of the page by the time I reached the bottom.

Visits.

What to talk about?

Hmm.

I couldn’t discuss things that happened in the past due to memory loss. I couldn’t talk about the future because they couldn’t imagine that. It brought me down to just… now.

Dad and Grandma were my teachers on how to be present.

I can’t say I was a very good student. There was a lot of wondering what to say. I struggled with what to do while I was with them

And the inevitable question…. would I want to live in that condition if it were me.

And then one visit it occurred to me. When someone sits with a dog, and just enjoys him, and that dog leans it’s head into your hand and just wants to be with you, then just be still. And enjoy. That’s a special moment. You might even get a little panting and smiling and stretching in the sun. That’s when life is good. Just being together sharing that wordlessness. That’s way more than enough. That’s the good stuff. The deep stuff. The stuff that gives the foundation of meaning to our lives.

No one would ever question if a dog should still be around just because he couldn’t remember fetching a stick with you when he was a puppy.

I grieved the person I lost while Dad was still alive, but that doesn’t mean I couldn’t enjoy who he had become.

I just didn’t necessarily enjoy him in the same way.

Here’s what worked for me:
Treat them like a dog… in the best possible sense. Be with them in the way that words and history don’t demand of man’s best friend. Be OK with being still within yourself, enjoy it, and you will find a powerful connection. One that transcends all the words and history that sometimes gets in the way of pure joy.

Dad was my first mindfulness teacher.

Still practicing, Dad, but I’m getting there.