The parable of the messy cabinet and the broken heart
Both are full of things I haven’t touched in years — but now I’m ready to open them up, and see what’s worth keeping, and what I ought to let go.
Part 1: What I’ve been avoiding
I’m staring at the cabinet in my living room, its contents spread out on the floor in front of me. I have letters in there. Old, unopened letters. Some of them more than a year old. I have this thing about not wanting to open the mail and read bad news… so I normally just put it all in the cabinet for safekeeping.
I have books in there, that I bought, and didn’t have room for on my bookshelf. I cram them into the cabinet, wherever they’ll fit.
I have empty spiral notebooks and journals, waiting to be used… and deep, in the inner recesses — a weekly planner. (Which I should start using, because my current planning system is to hope that I remember each day, what I’m supposed to do, and when and where I’m supposed to do it.)
I have some light exercise equipment: a small step and a stretch band, that I forget to use when I want to feel light and limber. And I have this weird, sort of half-moon shaped corkboard that’s supposed to heal my feet and correct my posture. Maybe someday I’ll take it out of the box and try it out.
I used to have a cheap set of tuning forks, each one set to vibrate a different chakra… but I’ve had that in there since last summer, and not used it once. So I’m giving that to Goodwill.
Behind the second cabinet door, there’s a ball of yarn, some scissors, more empty notebooks, and maybe a hundred or so loose leaf, handwritten pages. Some of them are old journal entries; some are hastily scribbled notes that I can no longer decipher; some are meal plans or weekly goals that I’d intended to follow.
Some are from unfinished brainstorming sessions — things I wrote down because I don’t want to forget them… and then, having written it down, I put it away in the cabinet, and promptly forgot it.
I have a jaw exerciser that’s supposed to give me sexy cheeks, or something. I bought it because it helps exercise the head and neck muscles, and my neck is always bothering me. But apparently, it only works if you remember to use it each day.
I have a couple of card decks - flash cards basically, that all deal with different therapy modalities.
I want to be using the cards to help me explore different concepts and modalities, and understand how these different therapies work together, but it always feels like such a chore to even grab one deck and just casually flip through the cards. I just can’t bring myself to do it. It’s too much effort, for too much unknown return.
Part 2: Dreams that don’t fit anymore
I have a Griswold cast iron patty mold box set, for making some kind of deep-fried dessert that must’ve just been the bee’s knees in the 1940s or ‘50s… I bought it off eBay when I was still living with Mom and Dad, and thinking I was going to get into the cast iron restoration business.
I thought for sure I would’ve got that patty mold out at least once by now. Just to try it…
Maybe I’ll just keep it anyway, and use it as home decor. The box is pretty fun, itself. Pretty nostalgic. Not for me so much, because I never had anything like that, growing up. But I mean it’s got that classic vintage look, right? It’s just… really cool.
(Is it enough to keep something, just because I think it’s really cool? I feel like that’s enough of a reason for me.)
What’s not so cool is the boxes in my walk-in closet, full of more than a hundred cast iron skillets, muffin pans, corn bread pans, and trivets of all shapes and sizes, all waiting to be sold on my Etsy — after I finish stripping and reseasoning them all.
Which… I stripped them all down to bare iron, before I left Mom and Dad’s… but by now they’ve all got surface rust that would need to be removed… and then need to be reseasoned… and then need to be listed, packaged, and made ready for sell… and then, if anyone is actually willing to drop a couple of hundred dollars each for 1940s and ‘50s cast iron…
Then, I need to figure out how to get the packages shipped, when I don’t have my own car or any reliable way to get them to the post office, or the UPS store, or wherever…
Plus, I don’t even have the right size boxes I need, to ship the individual pieces… and I haven’t done the work to determine how many boxes I need, or what sizes, or where to order them all from… or anything.
Those pieces have been in my closet since the day I moved in, two and a half years ago. At this point, probably the smartest move is to just try and sell it all locally, for whatever price I can get, to whoever will come to my apartment and take all the boxes out. I’ll never get back the $6,000 or so that I spent on it all… but at least I could get it out of my life, and whoever does buy it could eventually get those pieces out in other people’s kitchens, being used and appreciated instead of sitting in a cardboard box in a walk-in closet in the middle of nowhere, West Texas.
And anyway, stripping and reseasoning cast iron is hard, heavy work, that my fibromyalgia really doesn’t tolerate well. It leaves me so drained, I’m unable to do the things I really want to do, like write my newsletter, grow my veterans community, or even play the piano. Cleaning cast iron makes my arms and back just hurt too much, to be able to do anything else.
So it’s probably time I let go of the dream of being a world-renowned cast iron cookware restoration specialist and sharing all my knowledge of the history and showing people how to get the most out of their cookware! Especially when I barely know how to cook with it myself.
Food gets stuck all the time, and it’s often undercooked (even though I swear I preheated the pan!) So considering my appalling lack of expertise… and the way it drains my body and leaves me in more pain, not less… I probably need to let it go so I can work on other, more important things.
If it was up to me, I’d rather devote that time and energy to playing the piano. (Or harmonica, if I can get over the worry that harmonica will be too loud and will offend my downstairs neighbors.) But that’s for another day.
Part 3: I should’ve just bought a digital piano in the first place
To the left of my cabinet is the cigar box guitar I built, back when I was trying to restore a hundred-year-old upright piano in my parents’ garage. Working on that piano was so rewarding! It fueled my passion, for music, and for woodworking.
But as a pastime, it quickly became too expensive and required too much expert knowledge… and I barely had novice knowledge of what I was doing. I had to refer to books and to the Internet, and occasionally, call on a local piano tuner to come advise me.
It was fun, and I learned a lot throughout the process. But the biggest thing I learned was that I’m not cut out to be a piano tuner — or to work in piano restoration. It’s too physically demanding, and I’m just not willing to put in the time required, to master all the needed skills.
I was proud of myself for making the attempt. And other people were always impressed when they found out what I was up to.
But I just couldn’t see myself making a living at it… so I let the dream go, and I let the piano go to another family at church, and ultimately replaced it with a digital Yamaha piano. Which, maybe I should’ve just gone that route in the beginning, and saved the trouble, because all I really wanna do on the piano is play it, anyway.
But I think there are other valuable lessons that “learning to be a piano tuner” taught me. So I don’t think it was a total waste; it just wasn’t something I was destined to do for very long.
Compared to restoring an old, upright piano… building a working cigar box guitar was far easier, and much more satisfying.
I don’t play the guitar, though. I just keep it to remind myself of my creative genius, and how much I love learning and experimenting, and exploring things that are way out there in left field… for no other reason than it just tickles my fancy.
I just need to be a bit more selective in the future, because I don’t have nearly enough time, or money, to continuously throw myself into brand-new fields that I’ve never explored before. Oh, but if I could…
Part 4: What I show the outside world
I’m frustrated with the current state of the inner contents of my cabinet. The mess, the clutter, the disarray. The fact that I have unopened letters that are more than a year old! (Tasks like “open the mail” are why I really need to get married… so someone else can take care of it for me.)
I hate the insides — but I’m quite content with the outside appearance, particularly the mementos I’ve placed on top.
The cowbell was my nephew’s when he was about six years old. He played it in a school recital, and was the star of the show. (According to me.) He outgrew it in high school, and was going to throw it out, so I took it from him.
He lived with me and his grandparents for almost seven years, and he was my best friend and playmate when I didn’t have anybody else in my life. He depended on me to be there for him, to give him my time and attention, and to be a positive role model in his life.
I was trying to fade into oblivion, and I didn’t want anybody around. But I couldn’t say no to a kid who didn’t have anybody but me. The bond we formed in those seven years kept me alive when I really thought I didn’t want to be, anymore.
The train cars are from my dad’s model railroad when he was a kid. Me and my brothers used to play with them when we were kids, and me and my nephew played with them when he lived at grandpa’s house.
The photograph is from my grandparents’ wedding. I lived with Grandma for the last two years of her life. I took care of her at the end, so she wouldn’t have to go into a nursing home.
I’ve never missed anyone the way I miss my grandma.
The typewriter is my mom’s. I’ve never used it, and never will. (I’m not the type of writer who thinks it’s hip to use analog technology… or that typewriters sound more “romantic” when you strike the keys.) I have it, though, because I’m a writer, and because it reminds me that creativity, self-reflection, and inquisitiveness, run in my family.
The Book of Mormon and the “Be Still” sign remind me to keep my focus on God. I know He played a key role in getting me approved for disability, and preparing the path for me to move to Lubbock, and to flourish and thrive once I got here.
The monk studying at his little table reminds me to respect other people’s beliefs, and to maintain an open mind and honor other paths than just the one I’m choosing for myself.
The Donald Duck book? That’s another eBay find. I haven’t even read it; I bought it solely because I like the idea of being lazy. And because with PTSD and fibromyalgia, I need to remember to get adequate rest each day, or I can quickly become incapacitated for days or weeks on end.
The whole top of the cabinet tells the truth about who I am — what I love, what I miss, what I believe in. It’s full of life and intention.
Part 5: The truth, and the ugly, messy insides
But inside?
Inside, it’s a God-awful mess: unfinished projects, forgotten tools, abandoned dreams; things I don’t want; things I forgot I had; things I wish I would remember to use… but don’t.
Kind of like my heavy, broken heart, the insides of the cabinet remind me of what happens when we accumulate grudges, regrets, hurt feelings, sorrow, and sadness… and don’t ever take them out to examine them and to discard the parts that are no longer serving us… the parts we no longer need.
The parts we show to the world — and the parts we don’t. The sacred, and the scattered. The order, and the disarray.
But maybe the mess in my heart isn’t the disaster I’m making it out to be.
Maybe it’s just evidence that I’m sorting through what no longer fits, so I can make room for what might. And maybe that’s all I need to do right now: keep sorting, and keep making room for what might be waiting, just around the corner.
What about you? What are you still holding onto?
And what might become possible if you finally let it go?
The Sorting Table
A 5-Step Practice for Letting Go Without Shame
When life feels cluttered — not just your space, but your story — it’s easy to freeze.
You don’t know what to keep. You don’t know what to toss. You just know it’s too much.
This practice isn’t about getting rid of everything. It’s about getting honest — with what you’ve outgrown, what you’re still carrying, and what you’re finally ready to make space for.
You don’t have to rush. You just have to sit down at the sorting table — and begin.
Step 1: Name What’s in Front of You
Pick one thing — physical or emotional — that’s been sitting in your “cabinet.” Maybe it’s a project. A plan. A habit. A role you’ve been playing.
Write it down.
Prompt: What am I holding onto right now that feels unresolved, unfinished, or like a weight I haven’t questioned?
Step 2: Name the Season It Belonged To
Everything had a reason. Even the weird stuff.
What version of you needed this? What season of life did it belong to?
Prompt: When and why did I first hold onto this? Who was I back then?
Step 3: Get Honest About What It’s Costing You
Even good things can become too heavy.
If it’s still in your life — what is it costing you to keep it?
Prompt: What toll is this taking on my energy, space, time, or self-trust?
Step 4: Choose What to Do With It
You don’t have to “get rid of” everything. You can archive it, reimagine it, donate it, or finally let it go.
But make a choice — one that honors who you are now.
Prompt: Does this still belong in my life — or am I ready to let it go?
Step 5: Make Room for What’s Coming
Letting go isn’t the end. It’s the clearing.
Now that you’ve made space — even just a little — ask yourself what kind of life, practice, or joy might be able to enter.
Prompt: What do I want to make room for now?
Self-Reflection Worksheet: What Are You Still Carrying?
Some things we keep out of habit. Some because they once made us feel safe.
Some because we’re scared of what it might mean to let them go.
This week, don’t just look at the clutter. Look at what it says about who you used to be — and who you’re becoming now.
Sit with these questions. No pressure to answer them all. Just start where something stirs.
1. What’s something in your life that looks like it belongs — but deep down, you know it doesn’t anymore?
Write your answer:
2. What part of your identity was wrapped up in this thing, this habit, this role, this dream?
Write your answer:
3. What do you want your life to feel like — and what are you still holding that gets in the way?
Write your answer:
4. What fear or story has been keeping you from letting go?
Write your answer:
5. If you let it go, what would you be making space for?
Write your answer:
Final Thought
You don’t have to have it all figured out.
You don’t have to clean the whole cabinet.
You don’t even have to know what you’re making space for yet.
All you have to do is begin,
with one drawer,
one old dream,
one honest moment.
Letting go isn’t weakness.
It’s how we make room for the next version of ourselves to arrive.
Keep sorting.
Keep becoming.
You’re doing better than you think.