Sometimes we love the things we inherit because they hold deep meaning for us or they fit into our lives and support us nicely. This doesn’t always happen. Whether they are gifts we welcome into our lives or not we are expected to accept them and appreciate them.
Even if they are things we don’t like, want or need we find ourselves accepting them anyway. Even when we have more than we need or can take care of, or the room to store. And darn it, once these unwanted gifts are in our possession, we feel we can't let them go. The result is we end up living amongst things that don’t support the life we live today. They become clutter.
Maybe we accept them because refusing bequeathed gifts feels like betrayal or disrespect. Or maybe we hang on to these things because we worry if we let them go our memories go, too.
For many years, my parents had a grandfather clock that hung on the wall. My memories of that clock aren't great. It would ring out every 15 minutes and every hour it would ding dong the appropriate number of times depending on the hour. Whenever I visited Mom and Dad when the kids were little and needy I was often sleep-deprived, and that darn clock was constantly waking me and robbing me of rest. Before naps or before bed at night I would cover it with towels to try and muffle the sound. Still, it would wake me!
Imagine my surprise when I discovered that, among all Dad's personal possessions, he was leaving the clock to me! My sister and I had such a good laugh about it. How comical!
I'm almost nervous to tell you I didn't take the clock and I don't even feel bad about it. It found a good home, however.
I accepted the love given with the gift. Dad thought it would look nice in our dining room, which is very sweet. But still, I let it go.
I chose not to accept it even though I loved him. I already have enough clocks, it triggers bad memories of horrible sleep deprivation and, honestly, I felt it deserved to be with someone who would really appreciate it. Plus I knew I didn’t need it to remember him.
Which brings me to applesauce!
On one of my final visits to Mom and Dad's before Mom died, I experienced a feeling of great relief to witness how much love there was in their home despite the challenges.
It was a difficult situation; Mom had Alzheimer's and was living at home with my elderly father as her primary caregiver. Initially he struggled in his new role as caregiver and to accept what was happening to Mom. But recently he had really stepped up to the plate and was doing his very best.
During that visit, I decided to be helpful by making applesauce from a bunch of apples threatening to go bad. Mom was approaching the late stage of this disease and rarely talked. She watched me peeling apples for a while and then told me what a patient person she thought I was.
Yesterday, years later, as I peeled apples alone in my own kitchen, I couldn't have felt closer to the two of them even if I had a room full of heirlooms.