Stuff: Releasing More 2 in 2019

It was only last month that I wrote Stuff: Releasing More in 2019. Letting go continues.


The stick

Years ago, I received a walking stick from someone who'd whittled the bark off of it before presenting it to me. I have carried this stick with me for more than 10 years. My mother used the stick on some of our road trips. One of my descendants hiked with it in New Mexico. I transferred it from the trunk of my 1995 Camry to my Prius at the beginning of this year. But where there had been affection at the time I received the stick, in recent years, there have only been troubling thoughts  related to the giver. Each time I see it, touch it, move it from one spot to another in my car, the stick signifies darkness. It does not belong with me.

This morning, I pulled the stick from my car, walked it over to the dumpster, and leaned it softly against the dumpster's hard metallic wall. I felt pretty sure someone would claim it.

A couple of hours later, I saw the stick at its new home. The young woman who lives below me - she'd propped it just outside her door.

I smiled. She will know none of its history. For her, the stick will represent a goodness, and I am glad of it.

Happy anonymity

Installing Texas plates onto my car meant I had to let go of my glorious Land of Enchantment plate. A piece of art, that plate. Its turquoise sky, cheery sunshine lines, coral center within the Zia - displaying it on my car had been the unexpected realization of a wistful dream I had years back to be the owner of such a plate.

I could have kept the "Happy Town, USA" license frame that showcased my connection to Opelousas, Louisiana, but it obscured too much of the Texas plate.

Besides, in this time of too too much information about ourselves being siphoned into barrels owned by those who want to sell to us or to sell us, I welcome bland anonymity on my bland gray car with its bland, grayscale plates.

I've got the photos for remembering my colors.