Hindsight and Touchstones

When I was a kid I went to sleep with every stuffed animal I owned piled up on the bed around me because I didn't want any of their feelings to be hurt. I had my favorites, but none of the animals needed to know that. It was best if they all felt equally loved. I also remember a new refrigerator being delivered to our home, and the old one being hauled off. I felt terrible for the old refrigerator.

Of course, I grew out of that mindset, but even as an adult it has at times been hard to let go of "things." I feel disloyal when I trade in a vehicle that's been loyal to get me around safely for a new, shiny model. I even felt bad getting rid of my old Dell laptop in exchange for the fabulous MacBook Pro I am currently typing on. That old laptop was with me through many of my life's biggest moments. It was with me at the University of Idaho and rode with me in the old Chevy Cavalier when I moved to Texas for good. I completed my final semester's projects on it, and it was at home waiting while I walked across the stage at Stephen F. Austin to accept the diploma we had earned together. Why do we form attachments to the inanimate?

Naturally, the answer is in the emotions and memories attached to the objects, not the objects themselves. I keep a wooden box of mementos from an old boyfriend in my closet, not because I care about a macramé bracelet he made for me, and not because I harbor feelings for him ten, wait eleven, years later. The contents of that box are artifacts from my life at that point in time. I might open it up once a year, and every time I do a certain smell hits my nose and I am instantly taken back - to high school hallways, a theater class, and a house off Maple Grove in Boise, Idaho. Memories like those are vivid, and they keep me grounded. Every person needs touchstones in life to show them where they were; I believe that makes it easier to stay focused on where we're going.

The year I spent alone in Idaho forever changed me. I lived in the panhandle college town of Moscow, my parents and sister were in Texas, and my childhood home was in Boise. Whenever I made the 300-mile jaunt down Highway 55 to the City of Trees I always visited my house. Before it sold, I would still go inside. I would walk into our den and remember slumber parties with my best friend, whose name is also Rachel. Every Saturday for probably three years we slept on the two couches in that room. I would walk to my old bedroom. The holes from the tacks that secured posters and other relics of my youth were spackled and painted over, but every memory was crystal clear. I would leave the house and remember the excitement I felt two years before taking the same steps toward the limo that would deliver me to my senior prom. That was my past, and the tangible structure tied to the memories involved sat empty on Sandhurst. There were remembrances plenty, but my future was 1,800 miles away in Texas. The vacant house I visited every few months that year was the touchstone that revealed to me where I needed to go.

When some "thing" must go, or must change, how can we hold on to the essence wrapped up in it? If I were to throw away the wooden box on a shelf in my closet, how would I recall so vividly the memories stored inside it? By remembering the person, or the people, not the "things." By looking forward to making more memories down the road. By using lessons learned as the touchstone for growth and guidance in the future.

I wrote my first book on the Dell. But I'll write my second one on the MacBook. I grew up in a house on Sandhurst. I'll grow old in the one I choose a little time from now.