text: With ten minutes to evacuate after the children were safely in the car, author Terra Trevor grabbed the photo albums. During every fire season since, she's lived with the question, "What should I save?"
  Carelessly, I sometimes wish for fire. I fantasize about sacrificing the house in one great immolation that will finally free me from clutter. Expired grocery lists clone themselves inside my purse. Journals (I'll glean them for inspiration next week) are stacked on top of a thesaurus I meant to sell to the used book store. I plow through a closet stuffed with jeans that no longer fit, searching for the single pair that does. Week after week, I make a pilgrimage to the Salvation Army to cart off boxes filled with last year's fantasies.
  What should I save? Rubbish clutters my mind as well as the closets. I awaken to the same old resentments. They compete with outdated judgments for the limited space in my consciousness. My personal fire season begins with each new sunrise. Incineration threatens my past, but I refuse to evacuate. Flames licking at my heels, I rush to save treasures. I need that anger I've hoarded for a dozen years. It keeps me warm at night. And one day, I'll dust off the guilt I felt when my closest friendship ended. Guilt is good to have around. And why did I fail to return my brother's call last night? I'll hang on to that––second-guessing always comes in handy.
  What should I save? I salvage artifacts from the house-on-fire that is yesterday and drag them to the imaginary safety that tomorrow promises. For a change, just once, let the house burn down, all its contents consumed. Let the breeze cool my face, as I stand in the ashes, empty-handed.
  7 Lies Exposed by Mindfulness
  Since there's not enough money today, there won't be enough tomorrow.
  There's not enough money today.
  One Oreo will satisfy me.
  Health is better than illness.
  Peace equals happiness.
  My entrepreneurial pal Dawn Moore sells chic must-have goodies to enhance your living space.
  When an upscale lifestyle magazine featured her Los Angeles home, it was a 16-page full-color spread of my Jealousy. The green-eyed monster drooled all over her Ming porcelain. It hunkered down on her French settee. What is a settee, anyway? I plunged elbow deep into the horse manure of my envy in order to recover my previous affection.
  I emailed her a cheery congratulations.
  She responded immediately. "BTW," she said. "I love your blog."
  Ohhh. My words were her treasures, perhaps displayed on her turn-of-the-century Rococo game table. Elegantly back-lit, because after all, she has exquisite taste.