Letting Things Go
There is a wave of decluttering going through various social media now, sparking some results people are either finding satisfying or dismaying. I haven't read any books about it or watched any shows only because I already tackled the complicated feelings about it some years ago, about the time that I realized that, nope, I can't call myself middle aged anymore. I'm old. The world regards me as old, and to a certain extent, though I resist being set aside as old-and-useless with all my might, I have to accept certain conditions that come with old.
And one of those is decluttering. I do it a bag at a time, which is all my hands can handle. Goodwill is convenient, and I'm always on the watch for drives to collect for various causes; this past holiday season, for instance, someone was doing a drive for warm clothing for homeless people as SoCal was having an actual winter cold snap. I used this opportunity to get rid of a bunch of coats that had been sitting in the closet for years. All excellent quality at the time, many of them scarcely worn because coat weather is rare.
"Only keep what gives me pleasure" has been my mantra, but that can be difficult to define--or can come with assumptions that have to be untangled.
Like the box of clothes I've saved for grandkids. At this point in my life, I am beginning to doubt that I'll have grandkids--that decision of course is out of my hands. The closest I'll probably come is granddogs, who don't need this box of exquisitely made baby clothes, every one of which comes with memories. I'd pass them down laterally, but only one relative seems to be producing grandkids regularly, and they are all shopaholics--before those kids are born they already possess every toy on the market, and the latest styles in baby gear. I strongly suspect that my box would be accepted with a forced smile, then as soon as I'm gone taken straight to Goodwill. I might as well bypass that step, and I will, when it doesn't hurt quite so much to let them go.
Same with the clothes that I love that I'll never get into again. My conscious mind knows that if my weight gets down to barely 100 pounds again it'll probably be because i'm too ill for once-loved fashions. But I've never gotten rid of that small box . . . yet.
Then there is the chest of crystal and fine china. My spouse is appalled at the idea of using it (he has the mild hoarded gene from both sides, which is why this place is as cluttered as it is; most of it is his) but I've begun to use it when he's not around. I rotate between four beautiful teacups, and when I'm alone for a meal I sometimes eat off my beautiful Royal Daulton china, that I only served a meal for others on three or four times, always with him lurking anxiously in the background. And me anxious because I am a lousy cook, and a terrible hostess--the very idea of giving a party makes me anxious. But I do love sitting next to the window overlooking the leafy things in the patio, eating off fine china with a book in one hand.
I've already gotten rid of boxes of letters, only one person of which I now regret. Ditto a lot of my old story material, and related stuff. I still have my journals from before I broke myself of the habit, but I've come to terms with the fact that if I am handed a definite death sentence, I'll make a bonfire of those, except for the pages about my daughter's birth and early years, which I'll rip out and give to her because I know she'll like them.
Definitely the hardest will be my library. I don't know why I assumed while growing up that I would somehow achieve a generation house with a library that would be handed down and loved. Well, I know why, because I love generation houses, and have ever since I was small, and encountered stories about them. There were none in my actual life, neither relations nor certainly my family; until this present condominium, I never lived in any place longer than eight years. For a long period there I was moving every year or two. This place doesn't feel permanent, it's always felt like a bought apartment with a shared park. (Which I'm okay with, except when they cut down trees. There are never enough trees for my taste.)
Anyway, the library has to go too, but right now it's slowly, a bag at a time. All those kids books I thought to hand down, I'm winnowing those out, only keeping what I'lll reread. The sf and F I know I won't reread is likewise slowly diminishing. All I can carry is a bag, so it's very slow. I've taken a poke at the histories of lesser quality, and the fiction that again I know I won't reread. Eventually--if I don't hit a summary ending--I'll have to be more ruthless, but for now, memory and delight to the eye are the two things that stay my hand the most.
This entry was originally posted at https://sartorias.dreamwidth.org/997302.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
And one of those is decluttering. I do it a bag at a time, which is all my hands can handle. Goodwill is convenient, and I'm always on the watch for drives to collect for various causes; this past holiday season, for instance, someone was doing a drive for warm clothing for homeless people as SoCal was having an actual winter cold snap. I used this opportunity to get rid of a bunch of coats that had been sitting in the closet for years. All excellent quality at the time, many of them scarcely worn because coat weather is rare.
"Only keep what gives me pleasure" has been my mantra, but that can be difficult to define--or can come with assumptions that have to be untangled.
Like the box of clothes I've saved for grandkids. At this point in my life, I am beginning to doubt that I'll have grandkids--that decision of course is out of my hands. The closest I'll probably come is granddogs, who don't need this box of exquisitely made baby clothes, every one of which comes with memories. I'd pass them down laterally, but only one relative seems to be producing grandkids regularly, and they are all shopaholics--before those kids are born they already possess every toy on the market, and the latest styles in baby gear. I strongly suspect that my box would be accepted with a forced smile, then as soon as I'm gone taken straight to Goodwill. I might as well bypass that step, and I will, when it doesn't hurt quite so much to let them go.
Same with the clothes that I love that I'll never get into again. My conscious mind knows that if my weight gets down to barely 100 pounds again it'll probably be because i'm too ill for once-loved fashions. But I've never gotten rid of that small box . . . yet.
Then there is the chest of crystal and fine china. My spouse is appalled at the idea of using it (he has the mild hoarded gene from both sides, which is why this place is as cluttered as it is; most of it is his) but I've begun to use it when he's not around. I rotate between four beautiful teacups, and when I'm alone for a meal I sometimes eat off my beautiful Royal Daulton china, that I only served a meal for others on three or four times, always with him lurking anxiously in the background. And me anxious because I am a lousy cook, and a terrible hostess--the very idea of giving a party makes me anxious. But I do love sitting next to the window overlooking the leafy things in the patio, eating off fine china with a book in one hand.
I've already gotten rid of boxes of letters, only one person of which I now regret. Ditto a lot of my old story material, and related stuff. I still have my journals from before I broke myself of the habit, but I've come to terms with the fact that if I am handed a definite death sentence, I'll make a bonfire of those, except for the pages about my daughter's birth and early years, which I'll rip out and give to her because I know she'll like them.
Definitely the hardest will be my library. I don't know why I assumed while growing up that I would somehow achieve a generation house with a library that would be handed down and loved. Well, I know why, because I love generation houses, and have ever since I was small, and encountered stories about them. There were none in my actual life, neither relations nor certainly my family; until this present condominium, I never lived in any place longer than eight years. For a long period there I was moving every year or two. This place doesn't feel permanent, it's always felt like a bought apartment with a shared park. (Which I'm okay with, except when they cut down trees. There are never enough trees for my taste.)
Anyway, the library has to go too, but right now it's slowly, a bag at a time. All those kids books I thought to hand down, I'm winnowing those out, only keeping what I'lll reread. The sf and F I know I won't reread is likewise slowly diminishing. All I can carry is a bag, so it's very slow. I've taken a poke at the histories of lesser quality, and the fiction that again I know I won't reread. Eventually--if I don't hit a summary ending--I'll have to be more ruthless, but for now, memory and delight to the eye are the two things that stay my hand the most.
This entry was originally posted at https://sartorias.dreamwidth.org/997302.html. Please comment there using OpenID.