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