I just had a nice long chat with my sister. We were both in the mood to talk about death. A good friend of hers called her the other day after her brother in law had dropped dead at the age of 44 while on a cruise in Portugal. I told my sister I recently had a similar conversation with my accounting manager, Heather, who’d just had a client in their forties die suddenly, leaving their business affairs in disarray. Now Heather was having “the talk” about estate planning with all of her clients.
So, it’s time to redo my will. I asked my sister whether she is ok with being my executor. She is.
We said it seemed like a very grownup conversation to be having. How strange it feels to already be at the age where people in our lives are (occasionally!) dying suddenly, not only elderly relatives but sometimes also our peers, and not necessarily from accidents or illness, but from strokes and heart attacks. We are keenly aware that none of us knows our personal expiry date. If mine comes up tomorrow, I don’t want to leave my loved ones burdened with a mess.
Yesterday I was chipping away at my ongoing project to reorganize my home with Ruth, a woman who helps me with housecleaning and is also someone I consider a friend. Although we come from totally different backgrounds, we share some things in common. We are the same age. Her son and my daughter are both in college and planning their futures. We have each had our own brushes with tragedy, abuse, and loss, and each of us has at various times held compassionate space for the other’s painful stories. I love it when she’s here; we chatter the whole day away, calling out to each other from room to room while brooms and dust rags sweep away the debris of daily life.
This weekend, we set about putting my cluttered kitchen cabinets in order. Ruth had good news to share: She and her son are about to move into a two bedroom apartment, the first real home of her own in seventeen years. She has been living in a bedroom that she rents from a landlord who won’t let her put any of her stuff out in his house, not even leave her shampoo in the shared bathroom. Before that, she was with a husband who showed her no love and made her sleep on the sofa. This new home opens up a new chapter in her life, and I am overjoyed for her.
Ruth excitedly described her new apartment as she rinsed out a set of robin’s-egg blue mixing bowls that I’d dug out from the back of my cupboard. She carefully dried and stacked each one, placing paper towels between them so as not to scratch the ceramic. “Wow, these are beautiful,” she said, turning them to admire their shape. “So nice.”
She’s right, they are beautiful; teardrop-shaped with deep basins and sensuous curves, tapered into a pouring spout on one side. My friend Jodi gave them to me as a wedding present when I married my first husband nearly two decades ago. For years I loved those bowls for their beauty and utility, an everyday touchstone of the good life I thought we were making together.
At some point I started reaching for them less often, and lately I hardly use them at all. Seeing them nested on the dining table with Ruth’s protective paper towels between them, I was hit by a wave of sorrow. The heartbreak I felt when my husband told me he was leaving. My shock and refusal to believe it was really happening. And the very worst moment, when he and I perched on the edge of my daughter’s bed and told her that we weren’t going to be married anymore. Somewhere between then and now, those bowls become a symbol of a dream of married life that died on the vine.
I ducked into my bedroom to weep a little. “Give them to her,” said the voice in my head. But they were a wedding present! Jodi would be hurt if I gave them away. And I still love them. But the order came again, loud and clear: “Give them to her.” I thought of all the sauces and batters and salads I’ve made in those bowls, the pleasure I felt when feeding my family and friends from them. It’s a shame they’ve been left to collect dust. I guess I could start cooking with them again, but the truth is, they no longer feel right in my hands. It’s better to give them a new life in a new home, where they will be used and appreciated every day again.
When Ruth saw my moist, red eyes, she immediately pulled me into a hug, stroking my back as I explained why I was sad and shared the story those bowls contain. I showed her a picture of me and my husband on our wedding day. She said he was handsome, and I agreed.
And then I told her I wanted her to have them. Her eyes lit up. “Are you sure?” I was sure. I’ve been in a similar situation to Ruth’s, with a new home to make and not much to make it with. “If you ever change your mind,” she said, “just let me know and you can have them back.” I thanked her, knowing that won’t be necessary.
As a hardcore sentimentalist, I have lugged so much stuff around with me from place to place over the decades. But I’m now at an age when I want to travel more lightly through the years I have left, both materially and emotionally. I also want to make space for new treasures yet to come, because I’m not done living yet!
Our possessions are freighted with meaning, tying us energetically to people and places we share history with. But memories are not things. Even a cherished item has its own lifespan, and its significance is not measured by how long, or how tightly, we cling to it. Sometimes the best way to honor a gift is by passing it on while it still has beauty, and letting it be part of someone else’s fresh start.
Love it Mags!!! Glad the bowls will be cherished some more!