(I told this story awhile back. It’s a helpful story. I need to listen again)
I put my bowling ball in the dumpster.
Goodwill doesn’t take bowling balls.
It’s monogrammed. It was custom drilled.
But the initials aren’t mine. The hand it was customized for wasn’t mine.
I’ve had this bowling ball for thirty years or so. I’ve used it twenty times in those years. It was always too heavy. It’s a 16-pound ball. The grip was always off a little. I often wanted to think about trying a different ball, but this one was mine.
I don’t know where I got it. It was someone else’s trash or garage sale. At most I spent fifty cents for it. And once I paid the price, I carried the weight.
A couple years ago I decided to get rid of it. That’s how I found out that Goodwill doesn’t take bowling balls. One day I thought, “I wonder what it would be like to roll a bowling ball down the long center hallway at our church.” So I took it to work. It’s fun. A couple other people tried it and laughed. Because no one ever rolls a bowling ball down the hallway at church.
Even though I wasn’t a good bowler, even though you can use bowling balls for free, even though it didn’t fit, I kept it. I made it part of the quirky part of my identity, or better, it was part of what made my identity quirky.
But I put the bowling ball in the dumpster. Because carrying the weight of the story, the oddness, the salvage, the space under my desk, finally proved too much. I need to let go of some of the objects, some of the stories. Because in my world, everything has a story.
You can’t write new stories if the old ones are always having to be told. And some old stories aren’t worth telling. I’d rather be the person that let go of the bowling ball for the sake of things that matter more.
I’d rather tell stories of preparing to run faster by letting go of the things that distract us.