Taking part in the Ann Dee Ellis 8-Minute Memoir Writing Challenge. This is Day Eleven.
I’ve gone round and round in my mind on what is lost, circling around and trying to decide if things means something tangible, or the more ephemeral. Certainly there are physical items I have lost over my lifetime that I yearn for, wonder what happened, or where it went. When I first met David, he gave me a tiny wand with a fairy-ball at one end, and a star at the opposite. It made the most delightful lilting chime, like laughter. It was no bigger than my little finger, and I have no idea what ever became of it, but I do wonder. I hope someone has it and loves it.
More than things though, I imagine the intangibles I have lost over the years. I have lost much of the outrage I carted around for many of my younger years. It was leaky and messy and really wasn’t mine anyway. I borrowed it, and it was a relief to realize that lease was temporary and I could walk away. Somewhere along the way I lost some of my fears of not being good enough— that was also a relief. I lost my embarrassment of being messy and loud and big, and frankly, that needed to be lost. I lost the need, but perhaps not the desire, for approval from my loved ones. When I lost those things, I found there was room on my shoulders to relax a little, to take a deep breath, and to lift my head up and look around, and figure out who I wanted to be, and to decide I actually liked that person.
It’s funny, the things I feared losing most when I was younger ended up being the things I really maybe needed to lose most in order to fully grow up.