I’ve got boxes, bins, and binders in the basement that need to be burned! The boxes represent court documents that dissolved relationships. The bins encompass unread memos from political appointments and official responsibilities. The binders are filled with professional developments that are no longer relevant. I’ve moved these containers to the basement because I need them out of sight. I’ve reluctantly preserved them as if I’d need the reminder of what responsibilities in which I had not been successful–as if I’d analyze where I went wrong (and try again). These resources must be burned.
Why would I feel the need to hold on to things that will bring me no joy? Why can’t I simply bring one box at a time up to the trash bins and have them removed from my home?? Will I ever in-full-faith review that content again???
Their mere existence binds my hands. I knowingly hide these boxes in the dark hoping that I can redefine my purpose. The space that they take up in my basement represents the space in my mind, my heart, and my soul. They are the scars that I hide beneath my clothes.
I am no physician. Neither am I a psychologist. I can not heal myself. I simply lick my wounds and pray that they go away. Yet I know that faith without work is death.
And I am slowly dying. The mustiness and mildew will soon build. The mold will grow into something unhealthy. I need to stop it now. I need to open the windows and let the light in. I need to ventilate and remove. I need to burn every piece; not one at a time, but in bulk. I need to dance on the ash and never look back.