Finding Freedom From Fixtures

After recently taking a workshop with Marylee Fairbanks (http://maryleefairbanks.com/) I have decided to begin my own "24 Things" challenge (http://maryleefairbanks.com/24-things/). The rules are simple: each day for 24 days you let go of something that has been cluttering up your house, something that no longer serves you, objects that will be better suited at a yard sale, donation box, or in a trash barrel. During the 24 day release, one should only purchase necessities-- food, medical care, etc. All other material desires should be added to an ongoing list. If you are able to remember the items on your list at the end of the 24 days, then you are free to purchase them, otherwise they are likely to have been unimportant. According to Marylee, "The clutter in our house reflects the clutter in our hearts." Are we clinging to mementos of past relationships? Unwanted gifts that we were too polite to turn away? Clothes that haven't fit for years? Objects that no longer reflect who we are currently in this ever-changing body and mind of ours? Are the things we surround ourselves with keeping us rooted in the past, preventing us from blossoming into the future? In order to invite abundance into our lives, we must eliminate the unnecessary clutter that surrounds us.

Although Marylee recommends four cycles, corresponding to the four seasons, of 24 Things each year, the timing of her most recent workshop and the significance of this period in my own life could not have been better. I will be beginning my solitary 24 Things today, April 29th exactly one year after my (ex) husband told me he was moving out. In exactly 24 days I will turn 28 years old. I cannot think of a better way to mark the end of a year of transformation and to usher in another year of abundance, love, and gratitude for this life that constantly challenges and inspires me.

"One good thing to remember when clearing out is this: If you have an object that makes the past feel more important than the future then you should let it go. The past is gone. Your present is all that need be nourished." ~Marylee Fairbanks

Monday, August 12, 2013

56: Pamphlets

When I was seven the disease that I was born with nearly killed me. I kept the pain in my back a secret for as long as I could. It started like a pulled muscle, warm and tender. Then it spread further up my back until I felt like I couldn't stand up. When I finally admitted I was in pain my parents rushed me to the hospital. In the waiting room I tried to refuse the wheelchair that the nurses brought over for me, but was too weak to physically protest when my father effortlessly lifted me up and placed me in the leather seat.

I spent two weeks in the hospital, wheeled around from one test to another--MRI's and CAT scans where I had to lie still or breathe on command, drink giant glasses of disgusting dye, avoid touching the IV needle in my tiny arm. When I was finally released from constant care and allowed to go home, I had to see my doctor daily for months. I wasn't allowed to go back to school, so a teacher came to my house to tutor me. She held up cards with words for me to identify. I could never remember the word hospital and the the teacher would always prompt me: "You were in one." When I was allowed to go back to school I told my friends that the doctors didn't know what was wrong with me. As soon as I was old enough to understand that I was different I was given clear instructions never to speak of my disease to anyone.

The fact that only my immediate family knew made it easy to pretend I was healthy until an upcoming doctor's visit reminded me of my plight. When I was younger I visited the nephrologist every six months. Once a year I would have to lie still while the doctor smeared jelly over my torso for the ultrasound. Before I was hospitalized I would kick and scream and fight, anything to escape the cold room. After enduring daily tests and needles, going twice a year was insignificant. I stared silently up at the ceiling and counted the tiny dots in the tiles during the ultrasound and sat stoically as the nurses drew my blood.  Starting when I was a teenager and still today I make a yearly visit to the doctor to discuss the results of my most recent blood test.

For years I've allowed myself one week a year to feel self-pity as I anticipate my upcoming appointment knowing that I will hear that my kidneys are steadily losing function and causing other systems in my body to degenerate. The doctor's office always has pamphlets hanging on the wall and every year I take one of each, shoving them into my purse before the doctor comes into the room. On the train ride home from the hospital I read about kidney failure, dialysis, transplantation. I send myself into a fit of anxiety thinking about what life would be like having to sit several times a week in a room while my blood is pumped and filtered by a machine. Each year after the anxiety and self-pity have worn away and I've lost the pamphlets somewhere in my house, I cling to something that I think will cure me--raw food, Reiki, Ayurveda, and yoga are just a few of my most recent attachments-- and each year I am deflated again by a new set of blood tests, another visit to the doctor.

I found a stack of pamphlets when I was cleaning my apartment recently. I put them in the recycling bin without opening them to the pictures that I could recreate freehand having seen them so often. Today, as I was walking away from the hospital with fresh gauze taped to my inner arm I felt the sun on my skin, looked up at the blue sky and noticed for the first time in a while how beautiful it was to be alive. Today, I let go of more than just pieces of paper, I let go of obsessively worrying over what will happen someday in the future and focus instead on where I am in the present. With my eyes on the pages of a pamphlet and my mind on the future, I would miss all that is happening here, now.  I would miss out on the life I have left to live. 
Posted by at

No comments:

Post a Comment

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)