“If it doesn’t wrench your heart out, it ain’t worth it.”

~ DL

“Lenny, what about the tin foil?” I asked.

“Oh, yes, I definitely want that!” Lenny shouted from the other room.

“You have four extra-long rolls.”

“Great! I won’t have to buy that again for a long time.”

“Would you consider taking only one or two? You mentioned you’re looking forward to having most of your meals in the dining room. What do think about giving the others to your daughter?”

“Nope. She can buy her own. I want to bring ‘em all.”

“Ok. I’ll pack them up.”

When I first met Lenny, he arrived winded, frazzled and apparently had forgotten about our meet and greet.

“Would you prefer I come back another day?”

“No. Just give me a few minutes. I really need to get going on all of this,” as he begrudgingly motioned around his house.

In just six short weeks, Lenny would be moving into an assisted living community. Until recently he had been relatively healthy, reasonably active, and completely independent. Within two months he’d lost his dog and his driver’s license. And although he was quite matter of fact about his upcoming relocation and appeared happy to be moving closer to his daughters, his loss of independence was unnerving him.

“I hate not being able to drive.”

“I bet. I would hate that too.”

“I feel trapped.”

I nodded and waited for him to go on.

“I’m not sure where to begin.”

“That’s why I’m here, Lenny. We’ll do this together.”

With the blueprint of his new suite in hand, I began visualizing what Lenny might bring from his 1,700 square-foot three-bedroom house (with an attached garage) to his 550 square-foot one-bedroom apartment (with an itty-bitty storage locker) to accompany him into this next phase of his life. I doubted he would need his leaf blower or four bottles of bbq sauce. Two coffee pots? Probably not. The doormats to his old car? Doubtful. In addition to relinquishing multiple boxes of books and a couple guitars, I suspected he would be having to part with his piano, patio set, and ping pong table as well.

In order for Lenny to live comfortably in his new space, the math projected he would to need to part with about 90% of his possessions. If we could get to 80%, I would be thrilled.

With the move date set, we made a game plan and got busy editing. Most days Lenny was only able to remain focused for about 30 minutes before he fatigued, became emotional, or felt overwhelmed. I got in the habit of checking in with him before I arrived to see if he needed anything. Sometimes he would ask for cherry turnovers or vanilla coffee creamer, other times a roast beef sandwich and onion rings. The tv was always too loud, he took frequent naps, and he cried every time we came across a picture or a possession of his dearly departed dog.

I learned that in his earlier years, Lenny had once been the proud owner of a luggage shop, learned to pilot planes, dabbled in real estate, and enjoyed cooking. He had an abundance of stylish suits, swanky hats, and a record collection that could transport you to a dreamy dimension. He was well read, loved to dance, and I’m confident he could still make the ladies swoon. And although his body was slowing down and beginning to surrender, his mind certainly was not. He was sharp as a tack, always had a joke of the day, was opinionated on church and politicians, and had a soft spot for four-legged friends like no other.

Together we brainstormed his priorities and were deliberate about selecting what he wanted to surround himself with to help inspire and promote feelings of peace and happiness while reflecting a life well lived. We discussed what he still enjoyed doing, what he loathed, what was negotiable, what was not, while outlining the dimensions and boundaries of his next phase. We spoke about what got him out of bed each day, what set his soul on fire, and hand selected belongings that supported and encouraged passion while motivating him to remain creative and feeling alive.

The assisted living community manager reminded us both that he was still bringing too much.

His son-in-law told him he wouldn’t need a bottle opener or the jar of cinnamon.

His daughter told him to forget about the martini glasses and the excess tin foil.

His neighbor told him he would no longer need a screwdriver or the push broom.

Lenny looked at me with defeat.

I looked at Lenny with hope.

I encouraged and supported Lenny to stay committed through the constraints of that last ten percent. That last ten percent was an imperative space that allowed Lenny to maintain some level of control and decision-making abilities. Yes, Lenny was older, and yes, Lenny could no longer stand up straight, drive, or move at a pace other humans would prefer, but that didn’t diminish the fact that Lenny was still just a soul in search of a safe and supportive space to call home.

Was Lenny ever going to use four rolls of tin foil, have a martini, or sprinkle cinnamon on his ice cream? I don’t know, and it wasn’t for me to decide. Would Lenny have some extra items that wouldn’t fit in the new kitchen or have a small stack of boxes in the corner of the living room? Yes, he probably would. Would Lenny’s space look like what everyone else thought it should look like? Most likely not. But this wasn’t their home and this wasn’t their story, it was Lenny’s. And as the right of every person on this planet, old, young, or otherwise, Lenny was worthy of choices and deserved the dignity and liberation of getting to make them for himself.

When assisting a senior transition into a new home, I invite you to consider the following:

• Review and release. Spend time with the memory of the item. If you’re compelled, take a photo of it. Revisit the experience of where you were or who you were with when you acquired the item. Release the item.

• Storytelling can be a catalyst toward release. The words, “tell me more” are extremely beneficial and impactful. Try to incorporate these words when listening to the stories.

• What vision do they have for their next space? What would they like their space to feel like? Once the move is happening, you can revisit those answers to see if the items are supporting the previously stated vision.

• When coming across broken items, ask something like, “Does this item bring you comfort?”

• Aging can be tough. Losing control is challenging. Being dependent on others (especially your own children) can be difficult. Imagine yourself in the shoes of the other. Imagine someone asking you to part with 90% of your personal belongings. Reflect on the fact that this is most likely their last home and how challenging that must be for the human mind to comprehend.

• We’ve been conditioned to believe that certain items are necessary. When the rules get changed it can take some time for our brains to catch up to the realization that we may no longer need to possess a screwdriver or an extension cord or an extra set of sheets.

• Decision fatigue is real. It’s perfectly perfect to edit in phases. Do the bulk of the editing prior to the move. Encourage them to make all the decisions they’re capable of at the time. They can always make more when they get to where they’re going. Think high-level. Fine tuning can happen later.

• While packing, consider opening windows and/or doors to invite and entice currents of fresh air. This will stimulate the flow of energy and encourage movement and change.

• Change the dialogue from what you have to let go of to what would you like to surround yourself with. Rather than thinking this, this, and this, need to go, considering phrasing it as I would like this, this, and this to remain.

• Find a nonprofit that aligns with their passions. Passing along items that can benefit a cause they’re passionate about provides the giver with a sense of connection, contribution, and purpose.

To the dismay of some, but to the delight of others (mainly Lenny and me), in addition to his predetermined suggested list of “necessities,” Lenny arrived to his new home with a plethora of fedoras, his remarkable record collection, and multiple stylish suits including a white linen ensemble he had specifically designated for his someday cruise to the Italian Riviera.

After numerous internal negotiations, Lenny eventually relinquished two of the four rolls of tin foil to make space for some unique and curious contraband.

Your secrets are safe with me, Lenny. Have the time of your life.