Sunday, February 12, 2006
Divestment
Ever since I prepared to leave Minnesota, in the spring of 2003, I've been divesting myself of stuff. When I decided to move to San Diego, I knew I wouldn't be able to afford as large an apartment with as much storage as I'd had in Rochester--that was a given. So I weeded out my possessions, in what then felt like a pretty aggressive manner.
Some things were obvious candidates for the Church Women's spring Rummage Sale, considering the move was from Minnesota to southern California....the second and third pairs of lug-soled, waterproof, Thinsulate-lined boots, the third down parka, the several pairs of really heavy gloves, the wool scarves and hats. I put the full-sized snow shovel and other winter safety gear, including 60 lbs of kitty litter from the trunk of the car, jugs of assorted ice-melting chemicals, and extra floor mats to put under slipping wheels, out by the trashcan, for neighbors to claim. (That last class of stuff I'd rue leaving behind as I slipped and slid through the snowy hills of South Dakota on my drive west.)
Over many years I'd accumulated a lot of wool sweaters--both my mom and I would buy for classic style and quality, and the things just never die. I decided the odds were slim that I'd need 31 (yes, I counted them) wool garments in San Diego. So 24 of them went to the Rummage Sale, along with the lined wool dress pants and all but 1 pair of silk long underwear. Did I mention it was cold, windy, and snowy in Minnesota? But I was always well-dressed....
Then there were the harder decisions, in an attempt to cut down the weight the movers would bill me for. The high-end washer and dryer set my parents had paid for and that I'd only used lightly in Virginia, I finally managed to sell to a friend. Several boxes of books and notebooks from college went into the dumpster. There was just stuff I knew I didn't need any more--an inordinate assemblage of cheap Tupperware knockoffs for storing the leftovers from the big meals I never cooked. More posters and prints than any small apartment would possibly have walls to hold. Small household items I knew it would be cheaper to replace in SoCal than pay to store and move.
All in all, I thought I'd done a pretty good job of weeding. I left Rochester emotionally and physically exhausted, but reasonably happy with the amount of stuff I'd managed to discard.
Then I moved into my 700 sq ft apartment in Del Mar, and it immediately became clear the divestment had just begun. I called Episcopal Community Services, and said farewell to both my guest room beds and an occasional table and some chairs. I hope the battered womens' shelter put them to good use. Then, for over a year, I just resigned myself to living with the extra boxes stacked neatly in the corner of the living room, under plastic on the balcony, and all along one side of the bed.
Now it's time for the final round. I just can't live feeling this cramped by *stuff.*
It's like peeling the layers off an onion. An overworked simile, but apt. Each time I think I've thrown away enough, I realize that no, there is still more pressing in on me, making me feel crowded, cramped and disordered. It is a very ascetical practice.
I have a strong sentimental streak--I do not accumulate "stuff" as a form of material wealth, but rather because it instantiates a storehouse of memories. Gradually I'm realizing that things which I thought had great meaning to me, that in fact *did* and *do* have meaning for me, are nevertheless not essential. I can live, I can still be who I am, without the talismans from earlier days. Throwing away something that reminds me of my mother is not the same as throwing away my memories of her, or my love for her.
Tonight I've gone through a rolling storage unit and tossed out a huge hoard of lovely notecards and stationery--a weakness of both my mother and me. I gained almost a whole drawer of storage for more essential things, like my hole-punch. Each set of notecards had a design which had meaning to me, but how often do I actually write letters or notes by hand any more? Over the next few days, I will tackle the boxes of files and papers in the bedroom closet.
I suspect the full-sized artificial Christmas tree I bought for my first Christmas as "an orphan" in Virginia will go, too, along with some of its decorations...there's no room for it here, and the space it takes in my storage closet could better be filled by other things. My rational self says the half-dozen or so Don Swann engravings of Annapolis scenes that I've had for 20 years need to go as well. I have enough framed art to fill a condo complex, and while the Swanns hold a lot of historical and sentimental meaning, they're the least striking or useful in terms of interior decor--they're in a box behind the sofa at present. If I do manage to discard them, then I know I will have become a serious ascetic--that would be as drastic a statement as throwing out hundreds of books
So much of my past is represented in these things I am discarding. And once gone, they can not be reclaimed. My future is so incredibly uncertain, and the present has been rocky for these last three years, so it is hard to let go of the past. What, then, will I have to hold on to?
Those who are closest to me, and wisest, urge me to look forward, not back, to divest and discard so I can grow. But like any ascetic discipline, it does not come easily. Hopefully by the time this Lent arrives, I will have finally achieved the necessary asceticism of "stuff," and be free to move on to new challenges.
Some things were obvious candidates for the Church Women's spring Rummage Sale, considering the move was from Minnesota to southern California....the second and third pairs of lug-soled, waterproof, Thinsulate-lined boots, the third down parka, the several pairs of really heavy gloves, the wool scarves and hats. I put the full-sized snow shovel and other winter safety gear, including 60 lbs of kitty litter from the trunk of the car, jugs of assorted ice-melting chemicals, and extra floor mats to put under slipping wheels, out by the trashcan, for neighbors to claim. (That last class of stuff I'd rue leaving behind as I slipped and slid through the snowy hills of South Dakota on my drive west.)
Over many years I'd accumulated a lot of wool sweaters--both my mom and I would buy for classic style and quality, and the things just never die. I decided the odds were slim that I'd need 31 (yes, I counted them) wool garments in San Diego. So 24 of them went to the Rummage Sale, along with the lined wool dress pants and all but 1 pair of silk long underwear. Did I mention it was cold, windy, and snowy in Minnesota? But I was always well-dressed....
Then there were the harder decisions, in an attempt to cut down the weight the movers would bill me for. The high-end washer and dryer set my parents had paid for and that I'd only used lightly in Virginia, I finally managed to sell to a friend. Several boxes of books and notebooks from college went into the dumpster. There was just stuff I knew I didn't need any more--an inordinate assemblage of cheap Tupperware knockoffs for storing the leftovers from the big meals I never cooked. More posters and prints than any small apartment would possibly have walls to hold. Small household items I knew it would be cheaper to replace in SoCal than pay to store and move.
All in all, I thought I'd done a pretty good job of weeding. I left Rochester emotionally and physically exhausted, but reasonably happy with the amount of stuff I'd managed to discard.
Then I moved into my 700 sq ft apartment in Del Mar, and it immediately became clear the divestment had just begun. I called Episcopal Community Services, and said farewell to both my guest room beds and an occasional table and some chairs. I hope the battered womens' shelter put them to good use. Then, for over a year, I just resigned myself to living with the extra boxes stacked neatly in the corner of the living room, under plastic on the balcony, and all along one side of the bed.
Now it's time for the final round. I just can't live feeling this cramped by *stuff.*
It's like peeling the layers off an onion. An overworked simile, but apt. Each time I think I've thrown away enough, I realize that no, there is still more pressing in on me, making me feel crowded, cramped and disordered. It is a very ascetical practice.
I have a strong sentimental streak--I do not accumulate "stuff" as a form of material wealth, but rather because it instantiates a storehouse of memories. Gradually I'm realizing that things which I thought had great meaning to me, that in fact *did* and *do* have meaning for me, are nevertheless not essential. I can live, I can still be who I am, without the talismans from earlier days. Throwing away something that reminds me of my mother is not the same as throwing away my memories of her, or my love for her.
Tonight I've gone through a rolling storage unit and tossed out a huge hoard of lovely notecards and stationery--a weakness of both my mother and me. I gained almost a whole drawer of storage for more essential things, like my hole-punch. Each set of notecards had a design which had meaning to me, but how often do I actually write letters or notes by hand any more? Over the next few days, I will tackle the boxes of files and papers in the bedroom closet.
I suspect the full-sized artificial Christmas tree I bought for my first Christmas as "an orphan" in Virginia will go, too, along with some of its decorations...there's no room for it here, and the space it takes in my storage closet could better be filled by other things. My rational self says the half-dozen or so Don Swann engravings of Annapolis scenes that I've had for 20 years need to go as well. I have enough framed art to fill a condo complex, and while the Swanns hold a lot of historical and sentimental meaning, they're the least striking or useful in terms of interior decor--they're in a box behind the sofa at present. If I do manage to discard them, then I know I will have become a serious ascetic--that would be as drastic a statement as throwing out hundreds of books
So much of my past is represented in these things I am discarding. And once gone, they can not be reclaimed. My future is so incredibly uncertain, and the present has been rocky for these last three years, so it is hard to let go of the past. What, then, will I have to hold on to?
Those who are closest to me, and wisest, urge me to look forward, not back, to divest and discard so I can grow. But like any ascetic discipline, it does not come easily. Hopefully by the time this Lent arrives, I will have finally achieved the necessary asceticism of "stuff," and be free to move on to new challenges.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Cats at desk
Roxy (lying down) and Sugar sit at my home offfice desk. Soon they will have learned how to type....
Friday, February 03, 2006
Scarred Beneath the Skin
Scarred Beneath the Skin
I really wish "W" read newspapers. I'd like him to read this article and look at its accompanying photo gallery
I really wish "W" read newspapers. I'd like him to read this article and look at its accompanying photo gallery
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
I HAVE A JOB !!!!
As soon as the bureaucratic niceties are done, I will start work as a "Library Technician I" at Solana Beach Public Library.
The branch is just under 5 miles from my apartment. I'm very psyched.
The pay is such that I'll have to find another very part-time job to go along w/ it, but it will get me key library experience. And after 2 years or so I should get enough raises that I could ditch the second job.
The branch is just under 5 miles from my apartment. I'm very psyched.
The pay is such that I'll have to find another very part-time job to go along w/ it, but it will get me key library experience. And after 2 years or so I should get enough raises that I could ditch the second job.
