Eighteen years ago this month, my house burned down. It was the house I had bought after my divorce. Only ten days before, I had finally moved all my possessions into the house. But in one evening, all my plans for a new beginning went up in smoke.
For months after the fire, I kept the voicemail from the alarm company saying the signal at my house was weak. I listened to that message over and over. Erasing it was difficult. Some part of me wanted to blame them, blame anybody for this calamity that had overtaken my life. I must have told the story of that night dozens and dozens of times. I suppose that’s what I needed to do.
And then one day, I didn’t need to tell the story of “my fire” anymore. I didn’t need to be pitied for this awful happening. I didn’t need to be given a break for what had befallen me. I didn’t need to be admired for what I had survived.
Along the way a wise person told me that we tell our story until we don’t need to tell it anymore. So why am I telling it now?
What I’m telling is not the story of the fire. It’s the story of letting go of the story. I no longer remember the date of the fire. It was early February because I remember the cold. I remember I had moved out of my old house in late January. I remember the people known and unknown who came to my aid, but I don’t remember the date.
At some point the date that it happened didn’t matter. It was no longer the “anniversary” to reach back and touch that sad place.
So this week, I celebrate not remembering (or even feeling concerned) that at some point my house burned down. It feels like ancient history.
Is there a story that you are ready to stop telling? A hard time you are willing to let go of ? If you aren’t there yet, think about how the story and the holding serve you, or if they really do.
Let me know.
Until next Tuesday. YIPPEE!
Elizabeth