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