He had to spend a good deal of the day yesterday on his own, while I was out helping our daughter, Sarah, with the packing to get ready for her move on Sunday. It's amazing how much junk we manage to accumulate in our lives. I found myself wishing that she'd just throw a lot of it away, or at least have a giant garage sale when she gets to the new house. It's a lot more spacious, but it can still get cluttered really quickly if she doesn't take care.
Not my business, I remind myself. But it reminds me of all the clutter in my own life; and not only the material stuff, but the clutter in my mind. This morning, as I sat in meditation, I could not help but notice how full it was, like an old attic nobody has visited for years, where I have simply thrown the stuff I was too lazy to take care of and chose, instead, to store away somewhere where I wouldn't have to see it. It's all now covered with layers of dust and draped with stringy cobwebs. I try to pick my way through it, appalled at all the boxes that I dread to open and the stacks of ancient and decaying books.
Have I mentioned that I have returned to working on the book that I shelved a few months ago, in favor of something more like a sequel to Persist? It is called, tentatively, This Is Not Me, from my favorite mantra, "This is not me, this is not mine, this is not who I am"; and the subtitle might be "Shedding Delusions." It's about, precisely, clearing out that attic I'm talking about--clearing out those old parts of myself that I no longer need, but insist on clinging onto like that clutter in the attic. It's about looking for clarity, for that clear, bright mind that I hear spoken of, but have never quite managed to find.