The Freedom to Fly
Interpretation by Linda Thielbar
As a young person I remember wanting to acquire “things.” Like my own couch, and lamps, and a cute little bathroom medicine cabinet, and my own nail clipper and nail file set. I was going to college and starting from scratch so “things” mattered. “Things” made me an official adult.
Now I live in a house and I have a couch and lamps and, not only one, but two nail clippers. Maybe even three. I don’t need three nail clippers and I don’t even know how or when they all lodged themselves into my cute little bathroom “medicine cabinet” (where I do NOT keep medicine), but if you ever come over to my house and we want to clip our nails together I’ve got you covered.
I graduated from college, got a job, an apartment and more “things” just started to appear.
When I first met the man who is now my husband he lived in an apartment with no furniture. All of his clothes were scattered around the perimeter of his giant living room and he ate all of his meals on top of two beer cases covered in a bathroom towel. The beer cases doubled as his workout bench.
I was in love. He was worried that I would judge him based on his “stuff” (or lack there of) so he sat down with me on my couch one day and said…”You know, someday I really do want to have furniture.”
Someday is here. We have… stuff. And we are pulling our hair out wondering where all of it came from. I’ve heard the same from other people who find themselves in a similar “letting go” stage, which is also known as a “get-this-crap-outta-here” stage. Of course it’s all relative. One person’s “crap” is another person’s “lucky me” garage sale SCORE!
That guy who wanted —and got—furniture and I find our greatest joy together out in the wild where we make memories, easily get by with one nail clipper, and completely forget about all of the “things” that we thought qualified us as adults, but are now just weighing us down. Probably because most of it doesn’t really matter to us. Probably because we are ready to spread our wings.
As for the glass ceiling…well, you know what I mean.
The original poem written by Michelle Meyer. Follow on Instagram @bookofshepoems