Funny thing about me. I am getting older, but rather than turning into a hoarder, I give and throw stuff away. Lots of stuff.

At one time, a habit I found liberating, getting rid of my past, excess stuff. I often go through my things moving out the non-used, making room for new. But in the corner of a closet are boxes and a trunk of writings that are nobody’s business. I can’t seem to go through those, much less get rid of them.

I have journals from years of bad shit, bad marriages bad stuff with kids, lots of trauma filled moments, all recorded in various emotional states and fields. Some of those notebooks might need the sign of the cross to be handled safely.

They are filled with a past I have filed under, Get out of my head, stored deep in my mind.

I just read a memoir written from the journals of a woman and now I have a new fear unlocked. What my children would find if I died unexpectedly.

Feeling perfectly in control of my legacy, in a brief mili-second I realized, I am not. With all those words and emotions trapped on paper anyone who reads them can concoct their own version of my story and decide for themselves the reason for reactions and events. Just like in the book.

I would become an open book in death when I have been very secretive my life. Now I feel exposed. That’s some clutter to tend to!

Maybe complete peace doesn’t come until you burn the past to ash. Maybe holding onto those journals made me feel vindicated in my ongoing anger about the trauma I have been exposed to. Either way, it’s time to decide how much I leave behind of my story to my kids. And how many books I burn this summer!

Wow, sorry a bit heavy for the first of the day. The sun is shining, have a good one!