While we were quarantined two years ago my family grew so bored of staring at one another that we dedicated some time to cleaning the entire house — every inch. While we were cleaning some old ornate plates we had, my sister accidentally dropped one and it shattered. This was sad for her in the moment, she immediately reacted negatively and apologised. That plate had been in our house since we were kids. I don’t think it was particularly expensive, but it was one of the first things we would see when we’d come home from school or wherever else and walked up the stairs.

My father has always been a deep thinker type, always trying to tie down every moment and extract whatever meaning he can from it. When my sister was visibly upset by what happened, he said something along the lines of:

“That’s okay, breaking things is okay. It gets rid of all the memories it’s been collecting since we first got it. Now we can replace it with something new.”

Sometimes my dad says things that make me think something like “yes very nice, okay, but I still have this problem,” but this was different. He was right, that plate had indeed been with us my entire life and I had associated it with a number of different memories in my life; both happy and sad. It isn’t that seeing that plate always made me replay those memories, but it was attached to me in a way I hadn’t realised, and losing that — even if it was sad for a moment — was liberating.

I used to be a hoarder, but not in a noticeable way. I always kept my room clean growing up, but underneath my bed was a collection of boxes and other memorabilia from my life that I deemed too precious to throw away.

These boxes were full of photographs from high school, letters from my ex-girlfriend, gifts of all shapes and sizes, broken participation trophies, all of it. I’ve often thought about how I would feel if I just burned all of it, if it would really impact me too much.

Why do I even hold onto all of it? My gut response to that question is that they represent parts of me, they all come from people and times of my life which have shaped me to be who I am today. Does that even matter, though? All the food I’ve eaten to this point has sustained me as well, but I can only describe to you a handful of meals which are at all worth mentioning. Would you even care to hear about all the things I’ve eaten? I hope not.

Okay, but food doesn’t carry the kind of emotional weight that a letter or a photograph does. Is that a good thing, though? Do I want these constant reminders of my past available for me to indulge in whenever I want? Maybe.

I’m not going to throw those boxes of memories away, but the thought exercise helps me understand their place in my life — and more importantly, helps me be okay with the fact that I’ll probably not be carrying them around forever.

And that’s okay.

I don’t want to go off on some tangent about how everything is temporary and nothing actually matters, because I’m not sure how I feel about that yet. My insignificance is a relative insignificance, this doesn’t mean that none of these things actually matter.

When things do break or get lost, though, it can be more an opportunity for change and novelty than a time to grieve and pout.

My mother is a wonderful woman and a great mom, but I know she’s the type to get really worked up over things like broken decorations, torn shirts, stained walls, etc. I understand her well because I was the same way for a long time, and still am to some extent.

I don’t like losing things, I don’t like needing to endure that grief while also then needing to find the strength to clean the broken pieces up.

But again, maybe that process can be a more valuable and fulfilling one. Or not, I don’t know. Live your life how you want, just try not to cry the next time you drop your favourite plate on the floor.

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Not too long ago I was staying in a new city for two weeks. Without going into too much detail, it was a very difficult time for me. One thing I thought about while I was there was how I could learn when to turn the music off and allow myself to be bored and mindful whenever the opportunity presented itself.

This city has a park called the Noorderplantsoen. It’s a beautiful park in the northern part of the city, not too far from where I was staying. I had classes five days a week while I was there, and most days after class I found myself slowly gravitating towards the park and sitting there for a while.

After losing the distractions of the classroom the knots of anxiety in my chest and stomach would start to tighten and really impact my mood. I was able to feel happy and confident in class, but as soon as I was left to my own devices I would feel overwhelmed by whatever myriad of thoughts my brain decided on its own to work through.

That’s when I would turn the music off.

I have always been the kind of person who would listen to music every opportunity I had; any short break between obligations was a time to tune out everything and just listen to music. The way I listen to music has also changed over time.

I saw a quote years ago that I still think about, something like “Art decorates space, music decorates time.” Besides smells, music has always been the easiest way for me to tune into a specific time period. Since my goal lately has been trying to be more mindful and aware of my present situation, I realised I could no longer continue to do this as much as I have been.

When I hear a song I really like, especially if the lyrics resonate with me or if it’s a simple song played by just one person and their guitar, it’s hard not to imagine myself performing the song or imagining it playing in a variety of situations — a soundtrack for my memories. I have always liked doing this, it helps me build a relationship with art that isn’t tied to this one moment; it becomes a relationship I can turn to whenever I want. I can’t deny though how damaging this has been for my anxiety.

At the Noorderplantsoen I would let myself turn the music off, sit down on the grass somewhere, and look at my surroundings for however long I needed. There would be times I’d take my headphones off and immediately feel a rush of negative emotions, telling myself after that there was no way I could manage to be mindful at that moment — this was always temporary. At this park, I didn’t really have anywhere else to go so despite having limited faith in the practice I would still engage in it how I needed.

It would always work, even if it would take ten or fifteen minutes. I wouldn’t look at my phone; using my backpack as a pillow I would just look up at the tops of the trees and the clouds until my mind wasn’t thinking of anything painful anymore.

Knowing that it works isn’t enough for it to become a staple part of my life, but I want it to be. I want to learn how to be my own caretaker in these situations, I want to have the tools necessary to untie those knots whenever and wherever they appear.

I have never actually spoken to a therapist, but a number of my friends have. Through them I have been privy to some high quality advice, and one that has proven useful time and time again has been the concept of the muddy river.

In short, the river is a metaphor for the stream of thoughts that pass you by day to day — but you aren’t actually in the river, you’re just watching it.

Sometimes that river is pristine, clean and maybe even drinkable. Other times though something will cause the river to be muddy for some time. During that time, you can’t exactly interact with the river in a healthy way — it’s best to stay out of it for a bit.

Myself and my thoughts are not the same thing, they can be separated from one another. I can’t say just how helpful it has been for me to realise this, realising that as hard as things may get in my mind it will always be possible to ignore it in some way. It’s not always easy, but it is always possible. It’s liberating.

Knowing when to turn the music off has helped me achieve this easier, and hopefully whoever is reading this may find this helpful as well. Some of the biggest challenges in my life have been internal struggles; arguments I would have with myself. Knowing that those fires can grow and die without impacting the world around me too much is something I wish I understood earlier.

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