It’s 10:47am on Friday morning and Randy Gage is speaking at his event, Tribal. It’s the last of this intense, 5-day, 15-hour-per-day, event.
He’s talking about how to create a bestseller campaign for an upcoming book. Suddenly I’m transported to my garage which is stacked with boxes filled with thousands of copies of No Te Comas El Marshmallow…Todavia! (my dad’s book in Spanish.)
A knowing rushes over me.
It’s time.
My eyes well up.
I don’t understand why this is happening to me right now.
I try to change the channel in my head. “Focus on what Randy is saying,” I tell myself.
But the voice in my head persists.
It’s time, Caro.
What you don’t know about my decluttering marathon:
As you know, I spent a couple of months “Marie-Kondoing” my house. I sorted through every item in my home, including old letters, pictures, and sentimental items.
But there was one “stack” left untouched—the boxes of my dad’s books that I had inherited when he died.
My father had bought about 3,000 copies of his books in Spanish from the publisher at a great “author’s discount.” His intention was to sell them at his speaking events across South and Latin America.
When he became too ill to speak or travel, the books were left to collect dust at his house—until I brought them to collect dust at mine.
My plan had always been to carry on my father’s legacy; I also planned to sell those books.
But eight years later, those boxes remain in my garage, stacked one on top of another. They drive my minimalist husband nuts, although he walks on eggshells about it. This is one of those sensitive topics he can’t touch, but I know how much those boxes bother him.
I didn’t consider these books part of my mess. I considered them part of my
mission. And that’s why I didn’t address them during my decluttering marathon. It was easier to let them linger in my subconscious.
Unexpected Realizations
It’s fascinating how thoughts rise to the surface in the most unexpected moments. I wasn’t supposed to be thinking about my dad’s books; I was supposed to be thinking about my future books, my future projects, my work.
I’d been searching for a big breakthrough. What’s going to be my next big body of work? What’s the word/theme that defines what I do? Where am I going with my business?
But rather than the moment of clarity I was hoping for, I got:
“It’s time to get rid of those books.”
If my inner knowing was a person, I would have punched him and yelled, “Seriously?”
I hadn’t realized what those boxes of books had become.
When I first started this work, I thought my purpose was to not let my father’s work die. I didn’t want the world to forget him. But there was more: I also didn’t want to lose my dad’s world—a world I had loved having a front-row seat in. I knew that if I kept working as a lawyer, I’d eventually lose contact with it all.
As the years passed, the goal of not letting my dad’s work die expanded into a deeper understanding that I have a purpose of my own. I, too, have to work to do here—and it’s different from my dad’s.
Stepping into that truth has been one of the hardest things I’ve had to do because of my fierce loyalty to him and my desire to never leave him behind.
Do you hear the noise even when it’s quiet?
One thing I learned from Marie Kondo’s tidying up process of is how material things affect us energetically. She mentions that there are “… storage spaces of homes that feel noisy even though they look very neat on the surface.” She cautions readers not to underestimate the noise of written information (found in labels, tags, etc.). “The words become static that fills the air.”
Because my dad’s books were tucked away in the garage, I didn’t think they would affect me.
And yet, even though I was 200 miles away from home, the noise inside those boxes became too loud for me to ignore.
I had to confront the reality that I would never launch a campaign in Latin America to sell those books. As much as I love the books my dad wrote, it is time for me to focus on my work.
It is time to let his books go and I have to forgive myself for that.
What are you holding on to?
Sometimes we hold on to baggage that blocks us from moving forward.
Sometimes that baggage isn’t even ours to carry.
But we hold on to it anyway because we’re so close to it, we think it’s ours.
I held on to the work my dad didn’t get to finish, hoping I could do it for him when I was ready.
“That’s it, Caro. It’s time,” was so loud and powerful I could not ignore it.
Suddenly I knew those books were not my baggage to carry. My father had done the work he was supposed to do in his lifetime. He did the work, wrote the books, left the legacy.
I could hear his voice:
You need the space for your books, my love. The project is big. Get to work!
Despite how embarrassed I was to sob in front of my 12 co-masterminders and Randy, I am grateful for the moment of clarity I had in that conference room.
Before I move back into my house this summer, I will part ways with all those boxes of No Te Comas El Marshmallow … Todavia!
If you want any of these Spanish books or know of a Spanish University or library who might want them, let me know.
Like my dad said at the end of his life, “The cycle is now complete.”
And in this final act of saying goodbye to his boxes of books, I acknowledge that completeness.
Now my real work begins.
