Yesterday I cleaned out my file cabinets. Gone are the materials and bluebooks from college teaching. Gone are writings of members of ancient writing groups. Gone are a hundred newspaper articles about Native American issues. Gone are our departed dogs' vet bills. Gone are my transcripts from college and graduate school. I don't even want to look at this stuff and I feel certain my kids won't either. I need to toss copies of novels I've written and short stories and just make sure I have one of each left. Maybe next time I'll get rid of old art docent materials. I could dump handwritten notes from classes I took a lifetime ago. But yesterday my husband gallantly carried down four huge trash bags to recycle, so they'll have to be another purge later, when there is room.
How did it feel? I was relieved, and strangely unattached to my younger self with her careful records and multiple copies of articles, tests and other now useless stuff. I felt glad to see I'd saved some long ago writings, and a bit tender toward them. I discovered ink cartridges and other computer paraphernalia that might have been helpful a decade ago, but I have a new printer. I found a couple of treasures as well. A protest letter to other faculty about hiring four new white professors despite my and others' plea for more diversity. My design class notebook, which my friend taught and I remember with fondness. The magazine that shows the redo of my studio, looking better than real life. A kind of haphazard history of my life, in other words.
I conducted a grand emptying after my retirement, and it was fulfilling. Now there is actually space on some of my bookshelves!
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