Those who know me well understand how empathetic I am. I feel your pain. I believe it is why I love stories so much. In a good book or movie I am transcended into the world portrayed. I also adore dance for the same reason. And art. And music. Currently I'm mired down a bit in teen angst here. It is a difficult time to be young.
I went mining for objects to let go of and on a whim faced my mother's sewing machine. It is a beautiful old Singer in a cabinet with little drawers. I dumped each drawer out and surveyed the contents. I have early childhood memories of watching my mother at this sewing machine, back in her more domestic phase. I even have one very very vivid childhood memory of flying (seriously) and remember she was sewing with her back to me when I did it. Before I knew I couldn't. I touched all the things in the little drawers that I know she touched; curtain hooks, spools of thread, fingernail files and name tags from three different casinos. I miss my mother. She would get such a kick out of my Gypsy Wagon plan; I can see just how she'd look at me as I explained it to her and I know just what she'd say about it to others when I wasn't around. She'd be mock horrified but secretly proud; she'd understand.
Into the red bucket go the following:
1. A baggie full of packages of seam binding
2. A baggie full of safety pins
3. A baggie full of curtain hooks
4. A small ornament in the shape of a star (this was not my mother's)
5. A black velour overshirt that I always thought was kind of pretty but my kids tell me is hideous