This week an unexpected impulse to clean out my books took precedence over many other things. I have been carrying some of them around for nearly 35 years, wherever I have moved. Some burgeoning open space opened up inside me, and during the three days
I kept checking to see if it was contracting, but it wasn't , and when I had dozens of books in bags ready to donate to the public libraries here, I still felt lighter, and freer. Space on the shleves opened up, but space inside myself opened up also, and
I felt I had shed a burden of years whose name I do not know, nor do I need to.
I have come to believe over many years now that my physical space reflects my personal interior space. This is sometimes (often) difficult to admit, but when
I get to that point, and can clean things out and let them go, I feel I am freeing up a dammed river in some way. Same with clothes and other belongings. Shedding leaves room for wings to open and stretch.
My office is next.
Is this what the
milkweed feels as all her seeds jump into the wind?