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Mustiness. The smell we love to hate. We profess an allergy, a physical problem, when exposed to that smell of dead and rotting paper, or fabric that has forgotten how to breathe, or abandoned objects.
But is it really the musty smell itself we're objecting to? Could it be that the musty smell reminds us, in the reptilian part of our brain, that death is what it's all about? And boy, do we hate being reminded of that! The neo-cortex, all shiny optimism, recoils at being reminded that it won't get out of this alive.
Instead of confronting that revulsion, however, the neo-cortex just says, "I'm allergic to musty rooms. They make me sneeze. They make me sick." Whereas "they make me think" might be closer to the truth.
We have plenty of musty boxes, corrugated cardboard boxes that have been stored against the outer wall of the basement and have absorbed the moisture seeping in through the stone foundation. These boxes hold the things we no longer need in our lives but refuse to let go of. Surely someday my children will be delighted to read the short stories I wrote when I was 18. I can't bear to read them, but I'm sure my children will be thrilled to see me as I was then. Why else would I be holding on to them at this late date? And I know they will also want to read my answers, in French, to the questions on my third-year French exams, to know that once I had a brain—or at least a capacity to learn a little and parrot a lot.
What else is in these boxes? All the letters I sent my parents when I was in
Every four or five years, my husband suggests that we "clean up the basement." Because he is innately, incorrigibly organized, tidy, and responsible, he is always hoping that this will be the year when I say, "Oh, I see. I don't need to keep these reminders of my callow youth. From now on I can stand on who I am today."
And each time I go through the boxes I do let go of a few additional things, downsizing from seven boxes to five, from five to three-and-a-bit, from three-and-a-bit to two. But so far I haven't been able to let go completely. Do I think that one day I will reread all those papers and letters and then start over from these, reshaping my life so that I reach maturity sooner or with fewer missteps or fewer regrets? Do I imagine that on this second go-round I will achieve clarity while I'm still young enough to benefit from it? Or do I just hope that some day I will read the pages and feel pity and love for that lost, unguided girl, instead of heaping scorn on her.
Perhaps a musty smell is simply a physical manifestation of scorn and contempt, an olfactory trick of energy. Replace the contempt with love and the mustiness will disappear.
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