I have this folder of stuff that's been sitting on my desk for two months now, labeled "Home Improvement/Maintenance." It's full of receipts for gutter cleaning, contact information for plumbers, maintenance schedules, and contracts, all related to my condo—my former condo—in Massachusetts.
I brought it to work with the intent of putting it all in an envelope and sending it to the new owner of the place. It's taken me forever, obviously, to getting around to doing anything with it. Today, though, I saw it on my desk and couldn't take it anymore. I chucked it on the floor to take to the main office recycling bin on my next trip towards the door. I'm so glad to be rid of that condo, but I've been holding on to a lot of anger and sadness around it, too, much of that emotion misdirected at the guy who bought the place for what feels to me like a song, a deliberate ripoff, an insulting pittance. He was only getting the best deal he could, but it still hurts, and because of that, I have avoided passing along this information that I hold that could be helpful to him.
Today, though, I'm ready to be done. After my initial, symbolic toss to the floor, I ended up reaching back down and retrieving the folder. I put it in an envelope. I addressed it to the new owner. I put a sticky note on the outside of the folder, "Hope you love the condo as much as I did and that you find this information useful." And at lunch, I'll go mail it from the campus mailroom.
And then I will be free, totally free from any tie to that former home. It's about time. I wish that I were quicker to forgive, that I could let go of things faster. I don't know what I was getting from keeping that packet of information, maybe a subtle sense of power? Whatever it was, I don't need it anymore, and for that, I feel a bit lighter.