I feel like I spent the entire summer digging for buried treasure. I’m sure many can relate to the purging that happens when you make a big move. Time consuming, exhausting, daunting. We spent the better part of this year moving out of our family home/studio after sixty plus years. A gargantuan endeavor. My sister and I began by tackling a giant closet in our attic space. We pulled an endless number of boxes and bags out, and almost every time, my sister said, “Yours!”. I truly lost track of the number of boxes we hauled out of that closet, down two flights of stairs, and into my car. I knew it would take months to sort through it all. But oh man, the startling discoveries!

My college diploma…..how does one misplace a college diploma??!! All these years, I mourned over the loss of my diploma. Of course, I considered getting a copy but never got around to it. Mystery solved. A simple document holding proof of four impactful years. I now hold it my hands with such pride.

A handwritten note from Ginger Rogers. THE REAL, ACTUAL, LEGENDARY GINGER ROGERS!!! What?? My dad was appalled that it was buried in a box. (and yes, dad, I will get around to framing it) I was blessed to work with Ginger Rogers not once, but twice, in my career. I hate to tease you with the mention of her, but of course, she will return in one of my future blogs. To my students who have never heard of Ginger Rogers, please google her!!

The program from that time I tap danced at Carnegie Hall. What else can I say about that? It was Carnegie Hall! I tap danced on that acoustically perfect stage. What’s that saying…..how do you get to Carnegie Hall….practice, practice, practice! That incredible moment in time……in a box.

It was exhilarating to discover these treasures. I opened all the doors to my past, the memories and mementos, the proof of a life lived on so many highs and lows. I won’t bore you with the entire contents, but there was one extraordinary find, that for me, stood out above all the rest. I must interject here that when I started this blogging journey, it took me awhile to get up the nerve. I sent my first draft to only two people, my dad and my sis. My dad, for some computer glitchy reason, did not receive the attachment via email, however, my sister did. Her response was filled with oh, oh, ohs and love, love, loves. She gave me two thumbs up and the confidence to go forward and share. Once that first post went live, my dad finally read it. His reaction was one of pride, and he also reminded me how much I have always loved to write, as far back as elementary school. Other kids ran outside and played, but I was glued to my desk in the little bedroom I shared with my sis, writing up a storm. I wrote books. As I got older, I wrote in an endless number of journals. I wrote letters to myself. Writing was, has always been, and continues to be, therapeutic. So for years, I lamented over what happened to the books I wrote. Each one handwritten, over a hundred pages long. It was a series about one young girl. Each book focused on a different theme. I loved those books. I cannot even fully articulate how much I missed them. One of the first boxes I started to dig through was a very old, white, wardrobe style box, with handles, and on the top in big bold letters, it said “Debbie’s Stuff”. Prom pictures, high school yearbooks, etc. But on the very bottom was what looked like a gift box. I lifted it out. It was heavy and cumbersome. I opened up the top, and it was like every Christmas morning of my entire life all rolled into one. My books. MY BOOKS. My books had been waiting patiently all these years. Forgive me my drama, but my hands actually shook.

The next part of this story is a little bit sad. I took that precious box home. It sat in my living room for days. After decades of waiting, why was I prolonging the thrill? One night during one of my fits of insomnia, I quietly crept downstairs, opened the box and took out the first book. I read it cover to cover. I cried the entire time. I didn’t cry because the grammar was not perfect (I know, it still could use some help). I didn’t cry because it was so brilliant it should have been published. I cried for my younger self, who created a character that was obsessed with beauty, popularity, belonging to the right clique. A character that seemed shallow and quick to judgement of others. Was I the heroine in this story, was this character representing me? There are so many changes in the world, so many advantages that young people have today that my generation never had. And yet, some things never change. Why must we beat ourselves up for the qualities we do not possess? Why can’t we embrace and celebrate who we are, with all our glorious imperfections? I was truly disappointed in my younger self. I have not read the other three books yet. I’ll get there.

Moral of this story…..One, take better care of your personal belongings. Two, the most precious treasure in your life is YOU!! Take special care of you. Love you. Trust you. Be your own best friend.