Talking to Myself About Holding on to Stuff

As the balloon lifted off, she grinned in anticipation.
Oh, the fun of being high over the forest
Looking down, looking around, missing nothing.
She wanted to claim it all, as though in a gold field.
When there was an eagle's nest, she named it hers.
The hidden lake was given her name.
The flame kept the hot air balloon high,
Where she felt free, unburdened, invincible.

She wondered, as they slowly descended,
What she could claim, name, hold on to
As she had owned her dominion on that high ride.
Now what could grant her that same fullness,
That wide, open, encompassing feel of enoughness?
Could it really be found in boxes of papers from past projects?
Could she be foolish enough to believe it necessary, even desirable,
To skim months old, years old, newspapers and magazines?

"But," she says, "it's me who's holding on. How can I make myself stop?
I want to believe it's some old part of me hanging on.
How can I get to know that part with compassion?"

I know the answer for today. There's nothing wrong. I'm ok the way I am.
When it's important, when the time is right, I will let go and recycle my boxes.
Right now, precious part of me, go in peace. Trust yourself. You will know.