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

Sunday, August 18, 2013

61: Safety Pin and Fabric

My ex has been wearing flannels since they were popular in the early nineties when grunge music was at its height. In high school he had two that he alternated between-- one was red and black plaid stripes, the other was black/gray with a thin white line forming boxes on the fabric. He wore one or the other every day and refused to wash them. They soaked up sweat (they were a wardrobe essential even in the summer time), spilled beer, art debris on the tables in sculpture class, the scent of roll-your-own Bali-Shag cigarettes, and Old Spice deodorant. When he deployed to Iraq he left his flannels with me. I would wrap them around me on lonely nights and inhale the scent that didn't dissipate in the thirteen months that he was away. 

His senior year in high school he ripped the arm of his lucky flannel (the red and black one) fighting, playing football, or while drinking (I can't remember which.) The thin, frayed fabric hung down, exposing his pale forearm. In the winter, before I had a car, we would spend time together sitting pressed into the corner of the stone overhang of the abandoned church near my house. One night when the temperatures were well below freezing, he took off his flannel and wrapped it around me. It was just before Christmas and he'd been certain to say I wasn't allowed to buy him any gifts. I decided I would sew shut the holes in his flannel as a surprise. The breast pocket had ripped long ago from shoving his packages of Bali-Shag too hard into the worn fabric and the thin pieces were hanging on by a series of safety pins.

A few days before Christmas I pinned together the sleeve, but realized that so much fabric was missing that it would be noticeably damaged if I just sewed it shut. I woke up early on Christmas Eve to go to the Garment District, a second-hand clothing store in Cambridge, to find a flannel just like the one he'd ripped. I hated the fact that I had to work in retail on Christmas Eve and I hated the fact that I was joining the ranks of people who wait until the day before the major holiday to do their shopping. I found a red and black checkered flannel, brought it to the register, and ran toward the train station.

That night I set to work repairing the old flannel by transplanting small pieces of the new one into the fabric of the original. I sewed the pocket shut before moving to the forearm. A piece of fabric ripped off when I was pulling the safety pins off the pocket. I kept it as a relic of his favorite flannel, figuring someday soon it would probably disintegrate and the pin piece would be the only remnant.

Much like Valentine's Day, I waited by the phone on Christmas, expecting a call from him that would never come. My family, who were shocked that I had had a boyfriend for six months, asked where he was. I said he was sleeping (all that came to mind and a terrible excuse). They told me to call and wake him up, but I refused, figuring I'd hear from him that night. He didn't call that night, or the next day, or for the entire week of school vacation. Looking back, I wonder why I didn't walk away then and save myself nine years of his disappearing for days, weeks at a time.  He called me just before we were set to return to school to say he'd broken all the gifts he'd hand-made on his way home from school and had been too ashamed to admit it. He described in detail the sculpture he'd made for me of a heart with a sword through it and said how he'd dropped it, then deliberately shattered it more when it had cracked. I believed him, but after years of broken trust I wonder now if he wasn't lying to me even then. I told him on the phone that I'd sewn his flannel. He was angry at first, but when I gave it to him in person he was grateful. 

I can't remember the last time I saw him wearing the infamous flannel. I wonder if he finally retired it now that he's an adult, but think that he probably has it strewn among all of his other clothes across the floor in his room. When I was cleaning through my things I found the safety pin with the fabric still attached. Maybe it was the last remaining piece of his favorite flannel. I can't remember now whether I just threw it away or if I put it with the small bag of things I thought he might want back. Either way, I'm glad I won't come across this painful reminder of the past the next time I go looking for a safety pin.
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