A very close friend remarked tonight on my sense of identity.  She had been over for the afternoon, making sense of a clutter and volume that I could not alone, and she made an interesting comment.

She remarked on my strength of identity.  As a person of the Jewish faith, she always had an inherent sense of identity.  Her faith and culture and history and everyday were so intertwined, that she could not help but always feel a firm sense of who she was/is.  And she remarked that I was one of the few Gentiles she knew that possessed such a strong sense of similar identity.

We had been going through my things, trying to de-clutter, organize, streamline and otherwise un-complicate my life a little bit more.  She was amazing.  She was gentle, and kind, and paid respect to the process.  I couldn’t have done it without her.

My challenge with the clutter is that every piece, (well, virtually every piece) told a story.  Every item, every thing could be traced back to either an adventure, an experience, or a piece of history that shaped and formed me today.

And I take comfort, pride and strength from that.  I have a unique story, with a unique upbringing and have been afforded experiences that many will never see.  I draw strength from my roots and my narrative.  My identity.    I am so thankful for the experiences I have been given, and so proud of the unique story of my family that I want to honour it.   I celebrate the moments my children are able to eat dinner at the same table as their great-great-Grandparents, that they rest their feet on the chest of their great-great-great-cousins’ Steamer Trunk that came to Canada on 1860 from England via New York, and later by rail to Vancouver and on to a Cattle Ranch in Nevada.

I celebrate the opportunity to share and pass down my identity to my children.