The Basement Blues

Truth time: There is something about my basement that makes me incredibly sad. I am an unwilling partner in storage of the things housed there. At first glance, the items on the shelves and leaning against the walls are innocuous. My convertible’s hard top during the balmy months of spring and summer, a few ill-fitting helmets that roll around the floor every time I shift stuff from one point to another in the 5 square meter space, a pair of skis, holiday decor in a musty suitcase, empty boxes for kitchen gadgets I’ll never, ever resell in their original packaging, and a handful of boxed memories from years gone by.

Perhaps the cause for my sadness is the archived remembrance of a time in my life that didn’t work well. It is confronting to see my careless handwriting on the sides of those boxes, calling up emotions of despair and fragility. Or, further, it is perhaps the knowledge that over two decades of one’s life can be stored in a space so small.

I am not a materialistic person. In fact, when I moved into my beloved apartment after rebooting my life in a new city, I claimed that nothing — and no one — would enter my home whom I did not love. I would no longer hamster away hand-me-downs and unwanted gifts from well-meaning people. In an act of liberation, I would free myself of any material detritus whatsoever. I would live without compromise. I would look to what was working and stake my claim that everyone, including myself, would get what they needed. Well-being would be the center of my children’s and my own world.

At times I am extremely successful in that endeavor. Then something swoops through my universe to unsettle or rattle me to the core. I falter for a moment, stumbling forward in a blind fury toward that thing I promised myself when I got here. The dust settles then and the light returns just as sure as night follows day. I am alive. I am well. I am whole.

Memories are a part of my history and they inform who I am today. But I am not the memories themselves. They are like the boxes that get dusted off every now and again to give me perspective and occasion to reflect on what is good in my life.

My basement is indeed a sorrowful place. But it is just as much a part of me as the world I created above it. Maybe it’s good to have a place you can go to remember why you do what you do today.

Besides, today is truly the only day you can ever call your own.

 

 

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