I'm cleaning out my mom's apartment. I think the word cleaning is actually not really the right word – it’s more like confronting, analyzing, discussing, emoting, chucking, saving, storing, boxing, bagging, moving, washing, scraping, gutting, acid washing, de-molding, and walking in nostalgia my mom’s apartment. My parent’s are divorced. Yet, my mother has hijacked my father’s apartment (with him still in it) since she got the swine flu in late summer of last year. Yes, that pesky little swine flu – which I she gave me and, apparently, I readily accepted. As a witness, a friend, a daughter, a good Samaritan, and a yogi, I realized that if there is an aspect of my life, my family, that affects me, I can choose to either detach from it or do something about. Back in December when I was making a collage as part of a breathwork workshop lead by Jenny Miller, I came across quotes from Mother Theresa that inspired me. One in particular was an answer to a question upon receiving her Nobel Peace Prize. Someone asked her what people can do to bring more peace on earth, and she replied, “Go home and love your family.” It occurred to me that if anyone was going to get my mom out from under the rubble, it was going to be me. I had already extracted two sets of china from her apartment to use at Thanksgiving, so I thought knew what I was in for. On January 3rd, I dug in. Turns out, she actually has 10 full sets of china. Imagine finding that, one after the other, in cupboards, on the floor under the cupboards, under the bed, behind a couch. One by one, thing by thing, object by object, an entire universe hidden from plain site came into the foreground of my consciousness. And, the memories from my childhood started flooding in. According to my mother, each object has a history directly related to her life path. But, turns out, my memory and my penchant for nostalgia is very strong – who knew? My mom thought that some things were from her mother or perhaps were worn during the awards event for my dad or were bought in a store in London. I would correct her as the memory would swarm upon me, crystal clear, like a psychic vision. “No Mom,” I’d say. “It’s actually from Contempo Casuals in the 70s – it was mine.” On and on. The photo albums, incidentally, are numerous and bulging. Yesterday, I hit a milestone. I packed up the very last book, a black and white photo book for a coffee table of native American Indian artifacts. My partner in “cleanse,” Flavio, and I hauled everything off to storage. We expect that once she emotionally detaches from these objects and the dust literally settles and the mold hopefully stops multiplying, we can give it all away to someone who will attach a new memory perhaps to that Gilbert & Sullivan book of lyrics or the compilation of Tennessee Williams plays or the encyclopedia of operas. It all sounds so cool – but there comes a time when even the most fascinating stuff just has an air of dirt, germs, grime, and stuffiness. There’s actually a light at the end of the tunnel. I think she’ll have a move in date of 4 weeks. Her apartment will be hypoallergenic, handicap friendly, chic, beautiful, feminine, and hospitable for visitors. Whether she keeps it up or not is something I have to detach from, right? I mean, I can visit often enough and clean up. We can make deals that she won’t cramp it up again. But as part of this process, what am I really willing to let go of? Control of someone other than me? Control of anything in life? Maybe just the act of doing this, truly a blessing and medical necessity, is an act of love – enough in and of itself. Do I have to hold onto the act and remember what I did years from now? Or, can I truly practice detachment and literally just be in the moment? And, can I just love my mom pure and simple, without requiring anything of her? Who knows. --Barbie