My grandmother tucked round bars of Carnation Soap in all of her dresser drawers. While we talked about many things and she regularly gave me bars and boxes of soap, we never discussed why she loved nice soap so much. Standard Dial, Dove or Ivory seemed fine to me, but not for grandma.
Phyllis was a wise woman. She understood the importance of small joys, of daily reminders of the beauty of life. She celebrated color, craft, food and people. She indulged in small pleasures, like walks to the nearby parks, to the ice cream store, the small grocery, embroidery thread, her canary, plants and soap.
She died shortly after my 23rd birthday, and her death left me adrift. We developed a deep friendship that revolved around many of the same interests in nature and craft. She provided stability when life at home felt sad, chaotic and confusing.
I hadn't realized how much I depended on her until she was gone. As I later learned, PTSD short-circuits normal developmental stages. I spent the next several years trying to recreate some of the security she'd provided with the things she'd left behind.
The family was able to select furniture and household items before the estate sale. I eagerly took the couch, sewing machine, a rocking chair, fabric, yarn, pots and pans, mixing bowls and a lot of soap.
The days have passed where I have felt a deep need for her love. In fact, her love still carries me even as she's been gone almost 30 years. I also have crafted my own life with a husband, adult children, hobbies, friends, and a deep spiritual life. I have her pictures and things nearby but no longer think of her daily.
In my own seasonal changes, I have spent the better part of a year purging the house. Our adult children now have jobs. They no longer come home for long vacations. Our own interests and needs have changed. Things that seemed indispensable have been given to the thrift store.
I sense deeply this is a new season of life, one that requires purging things from past seasons and more thoroughly embracing what will carry you into the next phase of life. At the same time, we are evaluating what holds a memory well. Is keeping an object that used to belong to someone you love the best way to remember them? I am questioning this as my current default setting. Why am I keeping this object? This person didn't ask me to keep this. Why is it still here? This was what they loved; I don't love this. I don't need it or want it. I never did want it, in fact. I actually only wanted one thing to remember this person, and I have that. I have photos, and the one thing. So then why is all this other stuff still here?
Some of those items were grandma's. The couch has been given away. The rocker is gone. I still have the sewing machine but recently realized, I am tired of these tired soap bars laying in my dresser drawers. I have never once thought of them. I just have had them there. They belong in drawers.
Recently I was given a lovely bar of soap that contained several sweet-smelling herbs. I actually decided to use it in the shower instead of putting it in a drawer. What a shower! The smells, the luxury of soft, foaming soap. I quickly used up the bar of soap and looked forward to showers.
I walked to the dresser and opened my drawers. How many bars of soap are in here? About 6 bars of round Carnation soap, including one still with three in the box. That's how they were sold.
I pulled them all out and took them to the bathroom, tucking them into the soap drawer under he sink. I was going to use them, actually use them in the shower. The paper, already thin, crumpled off and went into the garbage. The scents are light but still there after 30 years.
It felt good to transition
In Hawaii last fall, I came across a stall in a market that sold trinkets, lotions, and soaps. Dozens of different kinds of tropically-scented soaps wrapped in handmade paper. They were stacked and organized neatly, making all parts of my brain happy.
I love a good collection and found myself buying a couple dozen small and large bars. I envisioned giving them to friends, using them in the bath and yes, tucking them into my dresser drawers.
For most humans, there are consistent tensions between maintaining family bonds and a sense of tribe with becoming your own person. During my own time of transition, I realized I was ready to move out of the shadow of my grandmother and the many things I had kept in my house that used to be hers.
Cleaning out the soap was one process, but in being attracted to and buying my own soap, I realized a key finding: You don't really need to reject what your parents or elders did; you just need to make it your own. Chances are, their habits, ways of being and traditions are ingrained in you anyhow. Fighting it tooth and nail does little but make your own journey one solely focused on "I'm-not-that" as opposed to an actual openness to self-discovery.