What Do You Treasure?

On love, loss, and the weight of the things we keep

Sign, sign
Everywhere a sign
Blockin' out the scenery
Breakin' my mind
Do this, don't do that
Can't you read the sign?-Five Man Electrical Band

I was on my usual morning dog walk when I saw the sign.

“What do you treasure?”

It stopped me mid-step.

Not because it was meant for me — it’s part of a cultural preservation project here in northern New Mexico — but because it felt personal. Almost confrontational.

What do you treasure?

It’s almost spring. Strangely warm for late February in my small mountain town. We should be knee-deep in snow, complaining about icy roads and shoveling the driveway. Instead, the sun has been warm on my face, the afternoons soft and golden. I know we need the moisture and snowpack. I know this isn’t normal. But still… I’ve been sitting outside in the sun, feeling something close to bliss.

Spring always does this to me. It makes me want to clear things out.

For years now, when the weather shifts, I start opening drawers and cupboards. The medicine cabinet gets emptied and reorganized. Closets are evaluated piece by piece. Every spring I try on clothes and ask hard questions: Does this still fit? Does this still feel like me? Why am I keeping this?

I have become very good at letting go of clutter. Selling it. Donating it. Passing it along. There is something deeply satisfying about clear surfaces and empty shelves. I feel lighter when my home feels lighter.

But this year, as I move through the house, I find myself hesitating over different things.

Not the extra dishes.
Not the unused serving pieces.
Not even the art that once felt essential.

I’m hesitating over the objects that carry people.

The handmade gift from my nephew.
The drawing from my grandson.
The vase my husband and I bought on a trip to celebrate an anniversary.
The small, not-quite-my-style piece my mom gave me — something I would never have chosen for myself, but she chose it for me.

I sometimes imagine what I would take if I left this rambling old adobe house. Every room here sits at a slightly different level — small steps up and down, uneven thresholds, thick walls that hold the cool in summer. There are gardens to tend and outbuildings to sort and driveways to shovel when it snows.

I won’t live here forever.

If I moved to a smaller place — a condo, perhaps, or back to a city — what would make the cut?

And that’s when the question gets uncomfortable.

Are treasures the objects… or the people attached to them?

Do we honor love by keeping things?

Or by releasing them?

Is guilt the price of memory?

Photo by C.Valdez on Unsplash

Losing my mother a few years ago shifted something in me. When we went through her things, what I wanted wasn’t her furniture or her dishes. I wanted her voice. One more story. One more hug. The objects felt both precious and strangely irrelevant at the same time.

And now, sitting with my older relatives, fully aware that our time is finite, I feel that awareness even more sharply. The real treasures in my life are breathing. They are not stored in drawers.

I have two uncles, my mother’s younger brothers. Last fall, the younger one lost his wife suddenly to a heart attack. She died instantly, at home. Two days later, he was at the woodpile.

He burned what he could. Boxed up her clothes, her art supplies, her accessories. He invited her friends over to take whatever they wanted before donating the rest. He even bought a small cake and made coffee for them — which nearly undid me when he told me. He is not someone who entertains. That was my aunt’s role. But he could not bear to be surrounded by her things if she wasn’t there.

My other uncle lost his partner during Covid. Six years later, nothing has moved. Her clothes are still in the closet. Her things exactly where she left them.

Which one loved more?

The truth is, love is not measured in storage boxes.

The objects were never the treasure.

She was.

If I am honest, some of the things I keep are not treasures. They are proof. Proof that I was loved. Proof that I loved well. Proof that a moment mattered.

But the moment still matters — even if the object does not.

As we age, I wonder if our homes are meant to get lighter. Not empty. Not stripped of beauty. But lighter.

Less obligation.
Less proof.
More intention.

And still — I know there is no single right way.

Some people will clear everything quickly.
Some will hold on to it all.
Some will sort slowly, telling stories as they go.

Maybe the only real mistake is never asking the question at all.

What do you treasure?

Is it the object?
The memory?
The person?

Are you lightening your home these days — or holding tight?

I don’t think there is a correct answer. I think there is only awareness. And perhaps a little courage. The courage to admit what we are really afraid of losing. The courage to let go of what has quietly become obligation instead of love.

I would truly love to hear how you think about this in your own life. Have you cleared out a parent’s home? Are you slowly editing your own? What feels impossible to release? What have you let go of that surprised you?

Maybe this stage of life is less about what we keep… and more about how fully we show up for the people still sitting at our tables.

Maybe presence is the treasure. What do you think?

Peace + Clarity

Much love!

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