The Label Maker
She was helping him reorganize and revive his kitchen’s apothecary. So naturally, some new labels were in order.
“Oh, there’s nothing as satisfying as a new label on a jar. I’ll bring it tomorrow,” she said excitingly.
“Yes, that’d be awesome!” He replied.
“But I’m only bringing it for you to borrow. This is one of those things I have to keep,” she admitted lovingly.
“Of course, of course, I get it…” He knew what she meant, and was already so grateful for the items and gifts he’d already received from her.
“The label maker… you’ll have to pry that one from my cold dead fingers. In fact, if I ever were to be buried, they could totally bury me with it,” she joked.
“Audrey Tesserot… she was unstoppably organized to her very last breath.”
They chuckled and kissed, continuing the never-ending process of selling and shedding and moving. He was helping her every step of the way.
What he didn’t realize in that moment is within every joke is some seed of truth.
The truth is, this was me. This conversation actually happened. Almost word for word. The truth is… while yes, I have Virgo-ian tendencies toward cleanliness, and they sometimes edge toward borderline psychopathic tendencies for organization and detail… the joke I made not two months ago actually spoke more about my holding on, my gripping, my need to source safety in the illusion of my things… than how much it reflected the organizational madness.
That’s to say… goddamn I’m good at holding on to nothing. Nothing being all the belongings, the items, the things I claim ownership over, the false narratives, the illusions of safety and love, the societal truths that could slip through my fingers at any given moment.
I was holding on tight. A lot of us are without even really noticing because we’re so deeply, societally and generationally conditioned to do so. It’s passed down at this point because society has been deconstructed and reconstructed to tell us what our truth is. This narrative truth is always subjective, based on the needs typically of the power structures that be. These truths are seldom based on our hearts’ deepest desires. My heart’s deepest desire was and is to feel free, open and light.
So I paused… I said, “Life, I’m 30 years old. This can’t be it. I can’t be obsessed with this label maker that I own (and claim to love) anymore. Because there has to be more. It has to be possible for me to tap into that gypsy energy I know is inside of me. The supposed truth, the right way to live your life, cannot possibly be the only way.”
So as I sold all my shit and prepared for this new life, I started to find the detailed ways in which I was seriously holding on to nothing.
I recall the bits and pieces of my home exiting the door one by one, day by day, during my “Bohemian Estate Sale.” Which was a brilliant title, by the way, and so many people responded to my excellent marketing. I had people nearly fighting over my big monstera plant, knocking down the door to get at my kitchen, and wondering if I had the most random of items that seemed to mean a lot to them. One woman even tried to show up an hour early without even asking, and then got mad at ME for not answering the door and, “Completely inconveniencing her day.” Lady, I was naked in the shower, having me time. And I have boundaries. Some people… they just NEED their stuff.
As the days went by, my home became emptier and emptier. Finally, I was left with just my belongings, all spread in the living room so I could gage just who exactly I was as a person, through the lens of what was most important to me. That’s when things got emotional, powerful, purging, cleansing, opening up a fear and a feeling I still cannot name.
I also couldn’t turn back. I also couldn’t deny that on top of all my very complex, very deep feelings about this crucial juncture in my life, I was also feeling an abundance of love for a very special man. The man in this little narration, actually. He knows who he is [blush blush]. My man had HELD me through this entire process, and it just so happens that the timeline included Valentine’s Day. He bought me the most gorgeous red roses and cooked me the most romantic dinner. I brought the roses home, put them in a vase, and they got to witness those final two weeks of this phase of my journey. Dismantling my home with roses in the background was a sweet touch.
The final day of the move out, I was still waiting til the very last second on things like the tea pot or the speaker, things I would keep using as long as possible. Afterwards, they were going to his place. I remember putting that vase of roses on the kitchen counter. It was time to go. Grab the final things in the bedroom, the towels and bedding. Clear the final things out of the studio, the router and chargers. Do the final clean up in the kitchen… those roses were still there in that vase. I just couldn’t bring myself to let them go. It was very easy to take action elsewhere, unplug the chargers, undo the bed, sweep if there’s time. I remember standing in front of the roses and freezing. I couldn’t name it at the time. But now I get it. Pulling those roses out of the vase, throwing them into the compost and dumping out the water was the ultimate sign of trust from the deepest place in my heart.
If I could let go of the physical expressions of love that gave me security, it meant I would have an open space within me. And then I could choose to fill that open space with love, with safety sourced elsewhere (like from within). I could choose to trust in him, in myself, in this journey. Eventually, I took a deep breath and pulled the roses out of the vase.
It wasn’t until about a week later that the sense of holding on hit me again. I spent a week in between moving out of my cottage and leaving New England staying with him in a launchpad of love, support and painting. Even in that time, I was recognizing more holding on to items, to feelings, to my dearest, darlingest kitchenware…
Don’t worry, I let the kitchenware go. It is in good hands now.
The week rolled through, everything was packed, I got in my little Ford Ecosport rental I named Shirley, and I was ready to drive cross-country. After all that selling, all that shedding, all that releasing of my life and my things… I STILL had enough things to fill this car to the brim. I had no visual through my rear view mirror. Oops.
Guess I could’ve used a bigger car after all. Or perhaps I could’ve taken more time to ask myself more questions. “Do I need this or do I want it?”
“What is essential?”
“Am I holding on because it serves a purpose or because I am attached to an old emotion stored within me, imbued in the object?”
“How many horcruxes are left, Harry?”
That car was packed. The one night I was pulled over for going 5 miles over the speed limit, the cop said (word for word), “Woah, you’re loaded.” It was so funny pulled out of context. Luckily, he was sweet, understood how tired I was after 13 hours of driving, and did not give me a ticket.
He did give me some self-consciousness about all my crap. His words, and the avalanche of assorted bags and paintings falling out of the car with each opening of the door, brought forth the feeling that while I was doing a great job of letting go, maybe I could do it more. Maybe I was lying to myself.
Maybe there was room for space…
When I first got in that car in Worcester, MA, outside the Atlantis Oyster Bar we had just painted, as I drove away from my life, my love, my energy, my home, I shed tears. I released energy. I released emotion. I was really able to let a lot go. The process still continues today, but I know that first turning on the car and pressing the pedal was always going to be the hardest part.
Yet, look at all that I still brought with me.
Fast forward to Austin, the destination of my roadtrip, my new home base. I arrived and was confronted with yet another layer of holding on.
My sister Naty and her cat Tiger Lily received me in their beautiful new home, and I quickly felt like I was taking up too much space. I laid out my suitcase, backpack, lunchbox, mini purse and drum on the living room floor to realize I STILL had so much shit.
I was in and out of my new storage unit the next day or two releasing even more items from my travel gear. I still left Austin feeling heavy. I recall getting out of her car to enter the airport exclaiming about how ridiculous the weight on my back was. I knew in that moment, it was time to buy a smaller suitcase.
I got to my final launchpad, the OG launchpad, Miami, FL. I was there to visit my parents and grandparents for a few days. My grandpa turned 91. It was so sweet. It was also really tense because I knew I needed to prepare, to shed even more, and to find that small suitcase.
I succeeded. I got my baggage and all my possessions down to a smaller weight and size than I ever have before. I let go of sweaters and pants, books and gadgets, cases and potions. I shed to the most bare minimum I felt I could in that moment. I even sided on plastic over glass… BPA free, at least… I know, I know… (any alternatives are welcome)
I changed so much in just those few weeks.
I released.
I bled.
I gave away.
I surrendered.
I changed. And while I was still viewed as “such an American” in Europe, and I was still carrying a decently heavy weight, and while I could still shed some more, I know that this is just the start.
I’ve learned it takes time to change. And it’s okay to be gentle as I process. When a plant is not rooted, it is even more tender and vulnerable.
But if there’s one thing that may never change… I will always appreciate a good label maker.
…which is why he now lives in my storage unit.
Aho.