It’s my third straight weekend back in this poor wee cottage.
And I’ve been wondering what in the world am I to do with all this stuff in here.
******
Last year, after I shared out to my four brothers, I took ownership of the final parts of my parents’ personal belongings.
Quite a few were books. There were at least three boxes of loose family photographs. I’ve a mantle covered with breakable bits that were around their house. Then there are the heavy pieces made out of solid wood.
I never considered them mine, but I could not imagine them getting thrown out or given away.
So, twelve months ago they arrived, and here they remain … covered and taped up in my Reading Room.
******
The problem is me.
This new stuff is needy. It needs places to go on and needs things to go in.
And, in my world, it is absurd to want something that needs something else. So, therefore, neither is acquired.
Problem solved.
However, in this situation, my reasoning is getting lost in reality.
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I can argue that space is the issue (hence the word “wee” when I refer to this cottage). Because, for sure, space is limited unless I do some re-arranging.
But really …
[INHALE]
It’s because piling my life with material possessions creates in me an existential crisis so crippling that cardboard boxes stacked in the middle of my Reading Room seems like the better solution than buying pretty wooden shelves and filling them with stories.
[EXHALE]
Sigh, it’s the nomad in me.
******
Ironically, and this is the funny part, it was my parents who nurtured my transient nature, and now it is their stuff that’s freaking me out.
Oh, score one for you two.
Enjoying your new found cosmic humour?
******
I’ve just always maintained, and backed it up, that I can pick me up at any time and be out of wherever I am in hours, minutes even.
Next to a change of clothing, my plastic money and license, and my passport, I have (had) three things that are musts for me.
They are:
- Marcel, my stuffed monkey, a birthday present from when I was 9.
- A limited but specific set of books that include Jane Austen, the Bible and my prized Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner.
- My jewelry case, also the size of a book.
That’s it.
That’s all I require. One, two, three … and I’m outta here.
******
Everything else I couldn’t care less about.
The bed, the TV, the sofa, the dishes, the clothes on hooks … All junk I picked up along the way.
Case in point.
Every dish in the kitchen was an extra from some other kitchen.
The clothes? Ugh, you can have them.
And the sofa came by way of a guy who bought it new for himself but when it didn’t fit through his front door, he decided that since I didn’t have one I should have his.
See?
Whatever.
******
But now my material collection carries a meaning, and familiar voices.
Like the rocking chair that my Mum sat in, by her fireplace, to read or think or, later, to comfort her when her body made her shaky.
Like the Hope Chest with my parents’ wedding clothes inside.
Like my Grandmother’s vintage Singer sewing machine blue desk.
Like all the books I used to open whenever I visited their house.
******
Early 2023, I had a company deliver them all directly into my Reading Room. And after they were done, I promptly closed that door and let those things stay where they lay.
It’s now 2024, and since I got back, I opened that door again, and left it open.
******
In doing so, I have come to the realisation that I can no longer say that everything I want fits neatly into a single duffle bag that I wear on my back.
This is a radical 180 for me, to both take in and take on. And absolutely I have experienced moments of panic.
******
It’s been slow going, but I think I’m seeing a harmonious path.
One where, instead of fitting three things into my notional nomadic rucksack, I instead make room for other things to be just as special and cherished as Marcel, Jane Austen and those heirloom rings.
And when I’m ready to move, I’ll simply plan better.
Happy Sunday.