Words and their meanings ... some people toss around words very casually without giving any thought to their meanings. Others are very careful with their words, speaking very few of them but they pack a powerful impact.
And then there is me ... who just loves to talk. I don't like silence. It's empty space. My husband said I am like water, seeping into every crevice and corner and filling it with stuff. Words. Fabric. Jewelry. Just stuff. I like stuff. I like having. It makes me feel secure to see a lot of stuff, like, I can fill that gigantic hole in my heart with stuff. And it never works, because the hole is a bottomless pit and it can never be filled.
As I try to clean out the clutter in my house, I find that a lot of my "stuff" is just that -- worthless and clutter. It's basically meaningless.
I recently attacked all the pictures in the top of my closet. Shockingly, I found an sealed box of matza that I had packed away. Not last year, but TWO years ago. We had too much matza that year, and rather than be forced to eat shmurah matza during the year, I sealed it up and put it in the top of my closet to save for the next year (which was last year) and promptly forgot all about it.
I found envelopes of pictures that were supposed to go into picture albums. Newborn pictures of Shoshana and Sheindy. These two girly girls have complained for years that there are no pictures of them in the picture albums. (Never mind all those same pictures are in Shutterfly Albums I have; I guess those don't count.) Again, pushed away into the recess of my closet and never another thought given.
The sewing room held similar surprises. The gorgeous nursing dress that I had started for myself. That baby turned 15 the weekend I found it. 3 bins of 2T-4T outfits - the only thing missing was elastic. Those were given to a friend's daughter for her to finish for HER daughter. Hopefully while she will fit them.
I pulled boxes from the attic, and attempt to sort through it. Some of it was shoved up there and forgotten. The box of Chanukah supplies that disappeared years ago. (Anyone want dreidels? I have enough to supply a small school who has a dreidel emergency.) The Purim boxes that I thought I tossed out. The stand to an electric keyboard that we tossed several years ago. Teaching supplies - what was I thinking? That if I ever went back to teach I was going to use old outdated supplies? There were 3 entire bins of copies for every holiday and subject ... all put out for the garbage because no one wants or needs them.
Finally, I found 4 boxes of Yossi's stuff. There were boxes of cards people sent him when he was sick. Boxes of cards sent to us when he died. Boxes of his work. And that's when the tears started. We are coming up on the 20th anniversary of his death. Yup. Twenty. YEARS. He's been dead for twenty long long years. My friend gets upset when I say he's dead. According to Torah, he's not dead. The soul lives on. But he's hugs and kisses, the ones he gave me with his physical body, they are gone. Same friend also doesn't like when I say "I lost my son". She doesn't refer to her son as lost. She knows exactly where he is. But me? I did lose him. I lost seeing him grow up. I lost seeing him drive a car and graduate high school and get married and have kids. And yes, my brain understands that none of those things were meant to be, and no, I didn't really lose those things, because they were not mine to have. But the heart ... oh, my poor heart ... it aches. It's missing those hugs and kisses. It's missing those special firsts I feel he should have had. It's missing him. So my head says he's lost and dead and my heart hurts. Seeing those notebooks, the paper he wrote up about our science fair project, makes him alive, and he's not alive and it hurts.
Anyhoo. Anyone want to buy some fabric? I have tons of it to get rid of. LOL.
