A number of days ago I went walking and found a purse lying in the grass. There was nothing in the purse but money, no identification, no credit cards, no lipstick. I put an ad in the paper for the purse. It read something like, “FOUND PURSE call to identify.” It has been almost a week. I’ve had lots of calls but no one has lost the right purse.
Yet, through all the calls I’ve had some really interesting conversations. Julie had her purse stolen in broad daylight and it contained the last letter she received from her husband in Iraq before he was killed. Then there was Jim, calling for his wife who left her purse in the bathroom of a local department store. She was on her way to take her new engagement ring to be sized. Today I talked to Mary who had her purse taken from her car. The wallet contained the only baby pictures she had of her now grown children. So many stories; so many people clinging to the hope that I might have found the one thing that contains the last, the only, the most important of something.
As I’ve talked to each person I’ve felt their disappointment when I’ve told them that the purse I have isn’t the one they’re looking for. I can relate to the attachment that causes pain when that which is loved is gone. There are no words for that pain, except maybe, “I’m so sorry for your loss.” Even then, these words only empathize, they do not heal.
What heals the pain of attachment? I can think of nothing. Granted, it moves and changes as each moment goes into the next. Yet, I can still recall the heartsick feeling from years ago when I gave away a number of my favorite books. I thought I could let go by taking them to a local library sale, but even now I still wish they were on my shelves. I think of those close to me that have died. I recall friends and lovers that have moved out of my life. I picture the objects that I’ve lost or had stolen. With all of these, with each twist of mind, I can feel the pull of the attachment that still binds.
I think many of us wear pearls of grief around our necks. Sometimes they weigh us down. Sometimes they just remind us of the living we’ve done. But for me, as I finger them at my throat, I know they take me away from the present moment. They remove me from what I have now – the beauty, the possibility, the perfectness of today.
I haven’t figured out how to take them off, and maybe removing them isn’t the answer. Perhaps, like most things, it isn’t so much about the pearls, but rather my relationship to them.
