Cull

Who knew there would be so many?  And how stealthy they are in the beginning; so innocent, simple and easy I don’t even realize I’m making them.  They perch on a sliding scale of difficulty I unwittingly set myself as I move through the process.  And the most time consuming and confounding of all is, in the end, the hardest to make are around the most trivial of things. I’m talking about decisions.

The decision to take action on my yearning to move out of my house and on to a new life has consumed the summer of 2017.  From the initial tour with my real estate agent in June sharing instructions on how to prepare my house to go to market, to the final throes of throwing the last vestiges into boxes now labeled “miscellaneous” and “kitchen junk”, I’ve been making decisions.

My bag collection is tormenting me at the moment.  I know; I can’t help myself.  I collect paper, select plastic, and the lightweight fabric.  Some of my most coveted are the ones from The Container Store, especially the little red zipper bags stowing Elfa hardware.  I almost like them more than the closets created with the parts they hold within them. Paper shopping bags with handles are a jumbled mixture of childhood delicacy and happy memories.  On bright, Sunday afternoons my grandparents would arrive at our house in the suburbs from the big city with Maurice Lenell cookies and other goodies in shopping bags I was convinced didn’t exist out in the sticks. My own bag collection coaxed into the daylight from the myriad of storage nooks now makes a troubling mountain in the dining room I can’t seem to attack. I will use the 50% rule to vet and downsize.

There are few milestones in a life that present such an undeniable and pristine opportunity to pause and take stock.  This process, whether I initially realize it or not, demands I make a decision about every single material item in my life from a safety pin to a sofa.  And as Hurricane Harvey rages on, I feel blessed and at the same time a modicum of embarrassment for all I have acquired, and grateful for the simple fact that I get to make choices for myself instead of a vicious storm making them for me.

 

Leaving my home of fifteen years is bittersweet. As I sit at my kitchen window and do the math, I realize that over the course of my lifetime there is no other place on earth where I have been anchored for more time.  No other sanctum where I have grown and changed as much. And there may never be again.

 

Ironically and somewhat not surprisingly, I have spent more time addressing my stuff than I have the wonderful people who have lived in and around this home with me.  While it’s understandable, something about it just feels wrong.  I’m looking forward to discovering new ways these relationships will change and hopefully deepen in the absence of close proximity.  Mostly I’m looking forward to the freedom letting go of some stuff will afford me.  If only I’m courageous enough to do it.  My gypsy soul continues to patiently wait. Probably with a few bags.