I wish I had a giant shovel.
I would shovel out my house. I would scoop up the clothes I keep hoping will fit again one day but still pucker at the hips and are tight across the belly. I’d heap up the files of warranties and manuals for appliances I no longer have and the collection of old hymnals I don’t peruse. I’d toss on the pile the creamer and pitcher my former mother-in-law bought when visiting my former husband when he lived in Belfast. I felt that I had received a family heirloom.
I’d empty out the linen closet of tablecloths and napkin rings, candlesticks and candy dishes meant for holiday parties. I’d empty kitchen cupboards of dishes that go unused by guests who never arrive.
I’d clear out the craft closet of unfinished projects, and hopeful supplies. I’d get rid of the shelf waiting to be refinished and the broken bird path I haven’t fixed.
I’d like to drive one of those large earth movers with the huge iron shovel with teeth. I’d rip off the roof and shovel out my collection of petty disappointments and grudges and hurt feelings. I’d like to hear them smash like glass on a cement sidewalk.
I’d like to kneel in dirt, use a sharp trowel, and carefully root out the voice that says, “You can’t,” “Don’t dare,” “Don’t try,” “Can’t risk,” “Play it safe.” I’d diligently extricate the rhizomes that seek approval and insist that I’m never quite good enough.
I’d uproot myself and plant me somewhere new to see what grows.