Minimalist Hoarding – Page 2

Baggage on Wheels

Living on the road has a much greater appeal now than when I was a kid sharing a tent with a bunch of brothers. At least half of it is probably genetic, and the other half is circumstance.

I remember the family trip that formed my approach to all the packing decisions that followed. I was 16 and we had rented a motor home for a heavily planned journey around the country. As the only female teenager, I was given more latitude than the others in terms of packing. My hair accessories alone, which included soup-can rollers in those days, took up more space than my little sister. She could verify this, because she was not trapped in the bunk with me the night my head got stuck between my pillow and the ceiling. Circling my room, I gathered everything except what I knew I could leave behind.

This is the packing method I used for everything. From purse to diaper bag, car to basement, everything was ready for possible use at a moment’s notice.

Until it wasn’t.

Like car keys that keep burrowing into the bottom of your pocketbook, I eventually noticed that the convenience of owning something was no longer worth the time it took to retrieve it. So now comes the time to stop packing and start living.

Very few of us have the good fortune to start fresh at retirement. Previous decisions restrict our options. Downsizing is a tedious process that takes so long that we sometimes die before we complete the job, leaving the work to those we want least to burden. In a couple of weeks I start the process of removing my Stuff from the house where I spent half my life suffocating in, living part time in a series of small spaces, and returning to the place where I raised my children, refreshed and prepared to waltz where the baggage once covered the dance floor. And free to spike the punch bowl.

The Thanksgiving Table

Thirty two years ago we had not yet moved in. Finally, after sorting and piling and flinging and stashing, we have figured out which one of us is leaving. Me.

The kitchen table has been a hot spot for thirty-two years now, and I can finally say that it has seen its last Thanksgiving Dinner. And the TV room has also seen its last football game.

My oldest son is at Base Camp on Mt Everest. The mountain here at home is sure to tumble. I took the other sons to a restaurant. Spouse remained at home, as always. It was great.

However thankful I may be for the years of overabundance, I am ready now have Less Much. Nowhere am I more aware of this than when I see my kitchen table. What I mean to say, of course, is when I DON’T see my kitchen table.

We are all such creatures of habit. Whenever I crack an egg into a pan, a voice inside me says, “This is your brain on drugs.” I can’t help it. I’m pretty sure that if I didn’t hear that voice I would notice, and thus I’d hear it afterall. And so, whatever is in my arms when I walk into the house lands on the table. A couple of things have been there for a year. Seriously.

The good news is that I’ve had a table at all. The better news is that it isn’t coming with me when I leave. I have finally begun to see these Things as stuff that sucks the life out of me, and I’m almost ready to live.

My Treasured Chest

I can't believe it's not butter

What exactly is left behind when we move on to a new lifestyle? This question hit home for me last week when a health issue sent me to the Breast Surgical Oncologist.

My left breast. It took up a lot of room. It was no longer useful. I couldn’t sell it. I wouldn’t donate it. It was only the memories attached to it that I really wanted.

But when push came to shove, I couldn’t imagine having to part with it. Or part with part of it. Unless I was dying, I wanted to keep it. And so I did.

Fortunately, the surgeon agreed and I came home with it and found the perfect spot to give it the honor it deserves. I will take it with me when I leave here, knowing that I will always be able to revisit the decision at a later time.

But the sewing machine… that really has to go….

Eggzactly

My beautiful picture

It is mostly because I have given birth in a barn of a hoard with a bunch of asses shouting “push” that I know the real miracle to celebrate is Easter, not Christmas. Anyone can be born. Most of us can live. We all die. But to come back from death and give birth to hope and faith and love is quite an accomplishment. Whether a Phoenix or the Son of God, coming from the depths of darkness to the light of possibilities and dreams coming true, it is the guidance of these few examples which allows any of us to enter a tunnel with any expectation of coming out on the other side of the mountain.

If you are trying to help a hoarder, your gentle guidance is going to be far more effective than a big production. Ultimately, the hoarder wants to crack its own shell as it sees the light, taking all the time it needs to adjust to the bright light of spaciousness. If you are walking on eggshells around a hoarder, you are beginning to help. You are to be commemorated and celebrated.

It’s All In Your Head

There is a deep connection between my brain and my belongings, and most hoarding experts would say “well, duh” to that. What better proof is there than to find yourself in a thrift store checking out the treasures you donated last month? This is why it rarely helps when well-meaning family members swoop in to remove your Stuff for you. They’re just knocking you upside the head, and your brain will spend hours, days, or even weeks explaining to itself why you deserve to be angry or sad or shocked or heartbroken.

What if, without that scrap of fabric, your brain could no longer recall the feelings you had when you wore that garment on the day that you met the love of your life? What if just holding it, you had been able to transport yourself to the exact moment you knew he was about to kiss you for the first time? What if that memory stayed in your head but you couldn’t get to it anymore, to relive it, to recall it, to compare it to all the other kisses that would come after that and fall short?

Feelings, for some of us, are tactile. I never feel the love of motherhood more powerfully than when I feel the top of my sons’ heads. They are all grown, but if I ever have the opportunity to pat them on the head (and don’t squander such an opportunity) I can feel my heart swell and fill with a love I could not contemplate before giving birth.

To dispose of an item is sometimes taking the risk of forgetting something you want to always remember – for a hoarder. If only we would use that brain to organize the memories instead of the clutter.

Unexpected Clutter

When you expect to find dust bunnies under your hoard, the last thing that comes to mind is bubble riders.

imag0305-20170215-192911200 These precious things, with their delicate wings once covered in dust, like to ride on all kinds of bubbles and tickle humans who are elsewhere. There is no way they are going to help with housecleaning; they have loftier goals.

The benefit for me was that with each wing I dusted off, and each wish for a happy journey, I found new space in my home and spaciousness in my soul, which I filled with music and light and love instead of more boxes.

And so the connection to my Stuff is loosened, and the idea of blessing someone else with my posessions takes hold. The clothes that will never fit my lifestyle, the crafts I will never make, the repairs I will never attempt, all are going away. Slowly. So as not to trip on a tiny faery.