Letting Go

Yesterday I sat and watched Jason Bourne with my father and I stitched up my favourite T-shirt, which was looking a bit tatty.

I got it about 5 years ago in a charity shop and it was a sleeveless, hoody T-shirt thingy. I cut the hood off and used it as a zip only tee. Later on I dyed it black as the original beige was fading and becoming a dull shade of Jane Austen. While it’s now gone an even more boring tinge of grey, it’s still my fave and I lovingly patched a small hole on the right shoulder and reinforced the cuffs with about an hour’s patient stitching. 

This well worn and comfortable bit of cloth has been from the UK to Greece to Australia, Moldova, Israel, New Zealand and Italy. It’s been my ‘go to’ whenever I wanted to wear something that I needed to feel was a part of ‘me’. 

Sewing it up last night I realised that this tee is coming to the end of its existence and sooner or later I’m going to have to throw it in the trash or give it to Dad for his rag box that he keeps for cleaning up after painting.

When I was about 6, Mrs Clayton, the teacher of F2 at St Mary's Roman Catholic Primary School, Southam, read us a story called "Pig Who Was A Nothing". It involved a little boy who had promised to give all his cuddly toys to charity. Later regretting the decision his mother assured him that it would be OK to keep "just one". He went to bed not knowing which one to keep, as all were special to him. He finally decided to hang on to the titular Pig, a very old toy that so was well worn it had no features left but was ultimately his favourite.

One of the hardest things for me to do over the course of nearly 48 years on Earth, is to simply let go and move on. It’s ingrained and it’s not something I do deliberately. I’ve no doubt there are millions of others on this planet that have the same issues, the same as there are millions who have no problem whatsoever with change.

My past, good or bad, has always been a bit of a safety net. The expression “better the devil you know” is true most of the time. When I replay the movies in my head, of past events, be they good or bad, they are memories I control. It’s only as I’ve got older that I’ve realised that the unknown isn’t such a scary place after all and it’s OK to move on into pastures new, even though you might not know what’s beyond the paddock gate before you enter.

A favourite bit of clothing is a metaphor for feeling safe. I’ve been travelling for about 2 years now, stopping only to work long enough to save up and move on again. But…I remember the mild panic that enveloped me if I lost anything from my luggage.

While in Australia and New Zealand I misplaced a hand flexer, a travel towel and a collapsible coffee cone. While these items were easily replaceable I remember the fear that overtook me as I tried to retrace where I’d lost them. They represented a part of me and one thing I’ve never been good at is feeling insignificant. By losing these things, I felt that small pieces of my identity were being taken and thrown into the sea. Ultimately my reaction wasn’t for the actual loss, or as the expression goes, the issue wasn’t the issue. It was the feeling of losing anything that I would be able to cling on to to remind me of who I am and where I come from.

I had even been streamlining before I went backpacking to Antipodea. Still, I managed after carefully deciding what to take and what to leave, to go with TWO tents and a whole load of stuff that I gladly gave up on the journey when I realised I didn't need it. But that part of me still wanted to cling to something.

Recently my storage contract came up for renewal. This is all my worldly possessions, plus some of my father’s, that I didn’t sell, give away or throw away in August 2016. It’s in the UK and was about £500 per year until the company decided to up the prices this year. I scouted about and found that basic storage BUT with external insurance knocked the cost down considerably. Happy days and cheap storage. However, the panic that briefly took over was because I feared that my identity in terms of what I’d obtained in this world, my physical possessions were being threatened, and along with that my identity in this universe.

The old T-shirt is cosy, warm and makes me feel good. But like Pig, it's ultimately a nothing.

It was only while stitching it that I realised that ultimately it didn’t matter and I can easily replace it. Life is very fragile and I, like many people, cling to what I have in order to feel that I  have something to identify with. Agoraphobics can sometimes freak out due to lack of reference points.

I guess I know how they feel.