As I am packing to move, again, after 14 months here, (no, I’m not a military wife… but thank you for your service if you are) and giving away more than I ever imagined I could, I am experiencing resistance and confusion.
First let me explain why I am packing. We are downsizing even further than we did last year in order to have a tiny home-base and buy a motor home to travel. We are blessed to have friends and family all over the country; we both love a good road trip, so I should be thrilled, right?
And yet I am plagued by the question, “Who am I without all my stuff?”
All of the artwork on my walls would attest to the fact that I am arty, and all of my friends are artists. Their serigraphs, etchings, watercolors, pastels and oils are all framed in unifying black and displayed everywhere you look.
I have promised a large four-panel screen from China to my sister. My pants are sprawled everywhere. It’s begun to look like the Little Shop of Horrors in here, so they’ve been easier to part with. Through my cookbooks you’d learn I’m a passionate and diverse cook. Vegetarian? Of course. Gluten-free? Yup. A carnivore, you say? How about a slow-roasted pulled-pork shoulder? Or lasagna? Molto bene.
And what can I say about all of my books? They have inspired and provoked many long conversations over a few bottles of good wine. It’s obvious that in my mid-sixties, I’ve been around. But as I give away each item, I feel like I become a little more invisible, and I wonder… How will anyone know about the wild and wonderful life I have lived?
One day somebody else is going to have to do all of this, and I don’t want to burden them. I’d rather give it away, now, to people who love it, as I do, and who will enjoy it for years to come. It’s bittersweet, this gaining my freedom by giving away everything extraneous. I keep reminding myself that each thing I give away is still here in my head, and in my heart.
You’re always welcome to come over. We will open a bottle of wine. Oh, the stories I can tell you!