All Downhill

I hit my pinnacle in Grade School. No kidding. I was smart and organized and I had all these great ideas and energy to put into those ideas. Yes, the world was my oyster and anything was possible. And I knew it.

When I was nine-going-on-ten, my family moved from one small town north of Pittsburgh to another. My mom reminded me a few days ago that I was the first one of the family to have my new room unpacked, clothes put away, desk drawers filled, and the boxes completely out of my room. She said she relied heavily on me after that to unpack and organize the rest of the house. (That’s a lot of trust, but I get it now. Would I, today, let my young nephews unpack for me and put things away wherever they wanted? Absolutely I would.)

At the time, though, I was happy to put our household things where they made the most sense to me, and I was surprised that my parents didn’t second guess me and move things around.

I do remember packing up my yellow room in the old house and thinking we’d be spending one more night there so there was no reason for me to feel sad yet about leaving. But we did such a herculean job moving that first day that we stayed that night, our first night, in the new house. So I never said a proper goodbye and I never got closure, and that wasn’t such a bad thing. I didn’t close that chapter of my life, of my childhood, really. I left the door open just enough that I can access that world whenever I need. Sure, I can go there in my mind, but these memories I can also access from the heart.

And, as I said, it was all downhill from there—like a giant slalom down a mountainside—because I’ve never been so organized, so together, or so driven since.

Case in point, this weekend I was getting ready to sign books as part of the Artisan Market in our town, and I searched for two hours on Friday for a missing acrylic business card holder instead of pulling together the books I was bringing.

I keep all of my book-signing items together, yet the cardholder slipped out somewhere with no trace, despite my search that left no stone or drawer or bin unturned. That’s when I took a break and visited my parents.

At first it was hard to believe that this person who can’t find a cardholder could be the same person they let unpack and organized our whole house, but that’s the story they told.

So when I got back to my office, I thought of my younger self, and I wondered what she would say to me now as I stood in the mess I’d made, with dust bunnies still on my clothes and an explosion of items and papers all around.

Now, walk with me on this, because I’ve given it a lot of thought. This is not Second Grade Me that some of you will remember. She was solidly seven. No, Nine-Going-on-Ten Me would spot the books we’ve written and say, “I knew we could do it.”

As for the mess, well, she’d likely say, “Hey, we’ve got some cool stuff!”

And she’d be right. I mean, I expected a lecture because I’d been beating myself up for being disorganized, but my inner child would dive into this room with wonder. I looked at my mess and felt grateful that I’d left that old door to my childhood open just enough to make a difference to me now.

And I thought: You can strive for everything you want in this life. You can make your mark, and you can either judge it all, or you can love your messes along the way that got you here.

 ~

P.S. I haven’t found the cardholder yet. But my perspective change helped me have quite a successful book sale.