Collect Memories, Not Things

"While you are alive, collect moments not things, earn respect not money, and enjoy love not luxuries." ~Aarti Khurana

It was hot in my mom's trailer today. Stifling, actually, but the hard-to-breathe part had more to do with the occasion than the temperature.

My dad asked me to go through the last of my mom's things with him. Take what I wanted. Pitch or donate the rest. 

Things. She had so many things. She had yarn she used to knit scarves. She had paints and brushes and canvases she used to create beautiful artwork. She had pots and pans and kitchen utensils she used to prepare delicious meals. She had curio cabinets, bookshelves, end tables, vases, knick-knacks, and candle holders she used to create a welcoming home. 

But because she's not here to breathe life into scarves, artwork, meals, a home...her things have become, well, just things. 

The items I took were things that, as I looked at them, brought back a memory of her. 

Her easel. Her paints and brushes. I see her, in the basement of my childhood home, smoking a cigarette as she dabbed color on a canvas. 

Her make-up. I see her, in the bathroom, swabbing cleanser on her face, moisturizing it, and then applying foundation. (She showed me the art of make-up application, too...how to apply it tastefully, how to blend it perfectly.) Her eyelash curlers (I don't know how the woman needed more than one, but I'll be damned if she didn't have a total of four, lol). I see her, applying her mascara coat by coat. Curling her eyelashes in between applications. (And telling me, almost every time I asked her how I looked: "Great! Beautiful! But you need more mascara." Because clearly, you can never have too much. :))

Her baking supplies and her Christmas plates. I see her, in the kitchen, with flour on her hands (and yeah, the cliche swipe across her cheek, too), as she rolls out pie crust for our mini pecan pies--one of the treats we'd been baking every year for the past several. I see her, artistically displaying those and other cookies on Christmas plates, wrapping them with colored plastic wrap, and sticking a bow on top. (This was a tradition that started after her suicide attempts in 2011...a beacon of hope, I guess, because if my mom was well enough to bake cookies, that meant she was getting better.)

As my dad and I were loading up his truck, my mom's neighbor, George, came out to talk. He invited me over to look at his plants, to see if there was anything I'd like to take with me. I chose a purple one (because purple is my favorite color and George said this one was difficult to kill). I thanked him. Not just for the plant, but for being my mom's companion, her friend. 

"I loved your mom," he said. "Just remember, this life is hard, but the good times, well, they make it worth it."... George didn't know my mom well, or for a long time, either, but she definitely made an impression on him. 

All day, I've been thinking about how my mom affected people. About how, when she was well, her energy lit up a room. How she took anything--any single thing--and made it fun. How loving, caring, and compassionate she was. 

And that's what's important...how people remember you when you're gone. 

So spend time with your kids. Talk to them. Listen to them.

Take your dog for a walk. Let her drag you down the sidewalk after a squirrel and don't yell at her because she's barking at it.

Leave work at work. 

Be with people who make you feel good, whether it's family, friends, or a significant other. Work hard on those relationships. Put in the time, the energy, because the older I get, the more I realize those people are hard to come by, and they're worth holding on to. 

Travel. 

Spend your money making memories, not collecting things. 

And love. Always, always love.