Under my bed is a dusty storage bin filled with a bunch of things I can’t seem to let go of. I always thought I needed to save certain things, but I’m not entirely sure why. My parents saved a bunch of my things when I was young, like my report cards and Christmas cards from my grandparents, ticket stubs and blankie scraps, and about twenty paintings from Kindergarten…all of rainbows. So maybe they kick-started the idea. But I suppose I’m a bit sentimental, too. I have my yearbooks and varsity letters, the first rose, albeit dried, from my high school sweetheart, newspaper clippings, photos, button pins, letters from friends, family, and former students…all fragments of a whole, the pieces I choose to cling to, the parts of me that I want to continue to be.

My daughter also holds on to stuff, and in an effort to contain it, I suggested that she also start a memorabilia box. Maybe it’s a family tradition? We’ve decided to put a scrapbook together to include all of her certificates and class photos and drawings.

I don’t really save any new stuff for me anymore, except my photo books. Now I save scraps of stuff for my daughter, like my parents did for me. I’ve kept a clipping from her first hair cut, a clay mold of her infant-sized hand and a mitten that used to fit that tiny hand, an ink stamp of her newborn feet, and her sonogram photos. I also have a baby book, that I over-filled out, and I’ve been keeping a journal about things that have gone on since I knew I was pregnant with her.

Why do I keep these things? For validation? Proof that I lived? Proof that I had a good and meaningful life? And what about her stuff? Evidence that she had a good life…thanks to her mom? Clearly, considering the theme of my blog, remembering my past, remembering who I was and where I came from, is important to me. And I think it should be equally important to my daughter. At least, I hope it is.

I think remembering where we came from is what creates our life map; it directs our future. It reminds us of what we’re capable of, and what we truly love and value.

Based on what my parents saved, I imagine they wanted me to know how smart and artistic I was, as well as how optimistic and loved I was… and am. I save my favorite paintings by my daughter, as well. Her imagination is wild and her vision is clear.

I keep thinking I should sift through my box and toss stuff out. After all it’s just a bunch of leftovers, scraps to box up. But maybe instead of boxing it up or tossing it out, I should display it. Why not have a constant reminder, or motivation, to be someone that I love?