The Tinman

By: Kristi Tisor Ambriz

Hugo and I have been reorganizing the garage.

Today, I put the last two charted and labeled storage boxes in the storage area above the garage.  The freedom is amazing.

I can be an organize-freak just as well as the next OCD sufferer.  But, anyone who has known me in the last, say, 7-8 years, would be scratching their heads at that one.  Because when it comes to my stuff, I have been anything but orderly.

Prior to 3 weeks ago, I saw my garage as little more than a time capsule holding difficult, painful memories.

It's been about 2 years since my ex-husband brought some of our stuff back from Nebraska, where it had been since the kids and I left for California in the summer of 2006.  Of course, once they were here, I was excited to unpack the boxes and, as Maureen O'Hara says in The Quiet Man, "Have my things about me."

The first box I opened was one of the last ones I had packed from my kids' Nebraska playroom, and it was one of the last boxes I packed before we left.  It was a hodge-podge of Lee's baby toys, video games, some of Abi's Barbie toys, board game pieces, and other miscellaneous toys that once belonged to a 14 year-old girl, a 12 year-old boy, an 8 year-old little girl, and a 20 month-old baby boy.  I remember the sorrow, as I packed it 6 years ago.  When I opened the box in my California garage, the kids were 19, 16, 12, and 5.  Most everything inside the box was obsolete, and my heart broke over the playtime that was lost in their lives.  In our lives.  I wept bitterly, went through a few other boxes, then finding myself overcome with emotion, I left the project to sit.  For 2 years.

In many ways, I sat too.  Frozen by my pain.  Rusted by my tears.  Just like the Tinman, in the Wizard of Oz.

He didn't intend to stand immobile in the field of poppies.  The field was so beautiful, with so much hope in the horizon.  He didn't want to have his fear and sorrow leave him frozen somewhere, unproductive, and without a voice.  He didn't want to be helpless.  Yet he was.

All it took was a little oil from his friends.

It sucks to be independent, yet desperately in need of help.  It sucks to make all the moves to travel forward and upward in my healing, only to find a newly discovered vulnerable spot deep within that stops me, and leaves me frozen and therefore exposed.

But, the rewards of having someone, (and in my life it's more like people), who offer me strength and encouragement to work through the pain and continue on in my journey, is incredible.  

Hugo is the main holder of my oil can.  He offers me support but doesn't let bad habits, even ones brought on by grief, fester and grow.  He mentioned the disorganized garage from time to time, not wanting to let me never go back because of the pain it caused to unpack whatever might be under the lids.

So, 3 weeks ago, I decided it was time.  I took the plunge, and I got busy.  And, as it turned out, the pain just wasn't as bad anymore.  In its place resided sweet nostalgia.  Accomplishment.  Fulfillment.  Freedom.  Strength.

After spending an entire day out there, we ran out of time and weren't able to revisit the project until last Saturday.  That day happened to be more difficult.  I unpacked boxes that took me back to our former  kitchen. My ex-husband's coffee mugs.  My coffee mug.  So many of my favorite serving dishes that I've missed all these years.  Glimpses of our life before, with all the grief of what was lost.

It was interesting.  Riding the pain, as horrible an experience as it was, led me to a good place.  A new place.  A place of freedom, closure, and peace.  I awoke Sunday morning feeling blissfully light, and free.  Cleansed from my tears, rather than rusted by them.  And I have to wonder whether having the incredible support system I have now, had much to do with my accomplishment, and subsequent freedom.  I am stronger because I'm not alone.

Being disorganized and stashed isn't my norm, but it was me for many years.  It was where I ended up  due to the tears: the wet ones on my cheeks, and the ripped ones in my heart.  My pain left me frozen.  Yet, Hugo held my oil can.  And now I can move, and even run forward.

And it is with unpacked joy that I can live, with my OCD tendencies tickled, and my Organized Girl Within alive and kicking!  With my wonderful things about me.

One of those Wonderful Things happens to be my beloved cedar chest made by my Uncle Tom when I was 18.  It was damaged in the move.  Hugo restored it, and it is now in my bedroom.  Home.