The "Scrapbook Box" and how I freed myself from its grip.

I should say that I admire, greatly, those who scrapbook.  Those who take the tidbits of life and make beautiful, gorgeous pages for all to adore. 

I am not of your ilk. 

I have had a box of "scrapbook" stuff that I have hauled:

from Maple Lane
to Liberty Creek
to Rose
to 1st Ave NW
to Sea Oats
to Reflection Cove Drive.

Yes, friends, six addresses, 13 years. The box has been opened on occasion, to find what it is I believe I want to see, but never truly been explored to its depths. 

On Saturday I looked through it.

I found hundreds of pictures.  Some good, lots meh, lots bad, a few great.  The bad pics (out of focus, blank pictures, blurry) went straight to the trash.  Nothing to see here.   The meh pictures were sorted to determine if anyone else may want them (because I don't anymore).  I found a virtual treasure trove of pictures of old, good friends.  So I sorted those and some of you will receive pictures in the mail soon. 

The good and great were sorted again -- into pictures to keep and pictures to pass on.  The keepers were resorted into a now much-depleted basket.  The others were put in the "pass it on" file ...

Thus, the tyranny of the scrapbook box and my guilt over it was ended. 

I think.

I woke up this morning in a panic over one (1) of the hundreds of pictures that I had trashed.  It was a picture of me and my sister on my wedding day as she hooked grandma's necklace around my throat.  To think of that moment, that picture, pains me more than it brings me pleasure.  I had such hope, such promise in my eyes that day and the picture captured it perfectly.  I know the rest of the story now -- and that is where the pain comes in.

It is okay, that one picture that I miss.  It is in my mind's eye ... I don't need that sadness following me around any more.