|Not the actual rug... that one is gone...|
In our attempts to pack and move I have been experiencing anxiety and depression...
There is so much stuff that I had deemed important and worth keeping. Now I look at it and realize, no it's not important and I must let it go.
Some things have been easy. One can only hoard so many empty butter tubs before it becomes ridiculous.
Some have been harder. Last night I carried an old, faded, falling apart rag rug to the garbage bin. It had been in my mother's home when I was a teenager. She had put it in my room and every morning my bare feet would hit the soft cotton and I would stand there a minute orienting myself to the day ahead. I left for college and the rug stayed waiting for my weekend visits and holidays home.
After I moved to NYC and got married my mother died. On that trip home I packed up the remainders of my childhood, including the rug and took it all back to what was now "home". The rug traveled through every apartment in NY that the hubster and I shared. It traveled back to KY when we returned. All our pets over the years have slept on it. It began to show its wear and tear after one too many trips through the washer and dryer. Still I kept it, clung to it. It became "shabby chic" then just shabby. It was past the point of repair.
Finally last night I held it up, the braids were frayed and unraveling, I contemplated trying to mend it. There was no way to undo what time, 7 cats, 3 dogs and 2 humans had done to the rug. It was time to let go.
I folded it over my arm, my fingers caressing the oh so soft faded cotton, I walked into the dark rainy night and placed it gently in the trash bin. I closed the lid on a rug, but held onto the love, the memories and the feel of soft cotton under my feet.