The Strange Museum of the Mind

I am the curator of an odd museum; there is only one of its kind in the whole world. It is the Museum of My Mind. Here I stumble on fragments of an unfulfilled life. Phrases, words, sentences that appeared to be real but were not at all.

I have shelf upon shelf of ammunition in the form of rotten remarks against myself. Pity, that.

Why did I bother to save them? Did I fear I would run out of negativity? After all, I manufacture more of them each day I rise from my bed of unconsciousness.

I look in the mirror and see me, the curator. An odd duck, she! Old enough to know better, I can attest to that.

I clap my hands together, thinking maybe the noise will be enough to scatter some of the old accusations from the shelf. Nothing.

I sit down to meditate. I do this every morning after a small breakfast of oatmeal and tea. Sure enough, this is the only way to clean the museum. Do not tell anyone my secret; it is for the few. I used to do the cleaning myself; I could not afford to let anyone see the great messy shelves of self-condemnation. And then, I discovered a silent helper.

This discovery only comes when I close my eyes and quiet my heart. While I am doing this, the cleaning happens. When I open my eyes, the museum is spotless once again.

Mind you, I could patent and sell this secret and make millions. I choose to tell those that are so fed up with their museum of ancient mental relics that they are desperate enough to hear the solution. And so I have told you, my secret readers.

Now I must remember what I told you, and herein lies the challenge. You never have to clean a museum that exists only in your head, but you do have to close your eyes and have a deep intention to be relieved of an impossible task. I do not know how this is done, but I never fail to thank the deliverer of the process.

Perhaps you know more about this than I do, dear reader, for it is said that what one knows, another can know as well. That is my intention in writing this down. Use it well.

Vicki Woodyard


  1. Today, when I sat to give thanks, the mind leapt to the negative. It surprised me that it was waiting to pounce. Perhaps that 3rd cup of coffee was too much !
    Thank you, Vicki !


    1. I hear you. It’s an unending situation, but one that can be monitored, but only sometimes. Those “sometimes” begin to become more and more important.


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