Packing Away My Pretties
I can’t easily count the number of times I have moved in my life. It is probably around 30. That is a lot of uprooting and packing and unpacking. Now some of these moves happened before I was grown, and are not always accompanied by a happy memory… which is why I write about them now.
When I was in my twenties, facing another move, a wise friend gave me a poster. It showed a kitten curled in a flower pot, sleeping blissfully, and proclaimed “Home is wherever your heart is”. It was a comfort to me, as I wrenched up my shallow roots yet again, and prepared to nest in another unfamiliar place.
Many times the moves I made were due to financial hardship, family problems, or perhaps a desire to start anew a life that was rocking like a ship in a rough ocean. Whatever the reasons, there were sweat and toil, loss of possessions, new house issues and new landlords and locations to deal with. I always thought, thanks to my Dad, who loved to wander, that I had a bit of the gypsy in me. I still think that, and I still do love to wander, but at 50 something, I find that moving is getting much harder.
I embrace the small house concept. I love the idea of just enough room for living, without a mortgage- paid- through –the- nose on the extra space for …what? Collections? Too many clothes? I had dreamed of a big Victorian or farmhouse style home, with many rooms, a library for my extensive book collection, a den to display my remembrances and momentos, a central hall and formal dining room. Now I find myself moving toward a tiny home… a home built lovingly by our own hands and one with, unfortunately, no room for extensive collections and souvenirs. So I pack away my pretties, pink depression glass candy dishes and creamer and sugar sets, antique plates and collections of teapots, and I remember packing them away years ago. They stayed packed for a long time, and travelled from New Jersey to Alabama with me. They lived in a storage locker, and when I broke a beautiful Limoges plate, I kept the pieces to one day use in a mosaic project. My craft room will require many boxes for the unfinished projects.
You see, I love to go to garage sales, and the thrift store, and come home with “treasures”. I indulge myself at a small cost this way, and pick up tiny flowered egg cups, pitchers for my collection, and a pretty bit of decorative lace for my overflowing fabric and sewing stash. My motto for years was “you can never have enough fabric”. Or maybe it was books. Um maybe it was … you get the idea.
It is enough. I have more than enough. I will store the pretties and the broken plates once again… and one day give them all away. I will then be truly free of the need to cart my life around in totes and boxes, newspaper and bubble wrap.
Now I know this might sound sort of sorry… but let me ask you this, reader… If you were to move to a drastically small, but basically free, home next week, how much would you sell, give away, or put in storage?
So I am writing about the process, and in this way, working my way through it as the pretties disappear into boxes and the walls clear of pictures and “Stuff”. And it feels good… cleansing… lightening… letting go of what is truly unimportant to make room for what is.
When I was in my twenties, facing another move, a wise friend gave me a poster. It showed a kitten curled in a flower pot, sleeping blissfully, and proclaimed “Home is wherever your heart is”. It was a comfort to me, as I wrenched up my shallow roots yet again, and prepared to nest in another unfamiliar place.
Many times the moves I made were due to financial hardship, family problems, or perhaps a desire to start anew a life that was rocking like a ship in a rough ocean. Whatever the reasons, there were sweat and toil, loss of possessions, new house issues and new landlords and locations to deal with. I always thought, thanks to my Dad, who loved to wander, that I had a bit of the gypsy in me. I still think that, and I still do love to wander, but at 50 something, I find that moving is getting much harder.
I embrace the small house concept. I love the idea of just enough room for living, without a mortgage- paid- through –the- nose on the extra space for …what? Collections? Too many clothes? I had dreamed of a big Victorian or farmhouse style home, with many rooms, a library for my extensive book collection, a den to display my remembrances and momentos, a central hall and formal dining room. Now I find myself moving toward a tiny home… a home built lovingly by our own hands and one with, unfortunately, no room for extensive collections and souvenirs. So I pack away my pretties, pink depression glass candy dishes and creamer and sugar sets, antique plates and collections of teapots, and I remember packing them away years ago. They stayed packed for a long time, and travelled from New Jersey to Alabama with me. They lived in a storage locker, and when I broke a beautiful Limoges plate, I kept the pieces to one day use in a mosaic project. My craft room will require many boxes for the unfinished projects.
You see, I love to go to garage sales, and the thrift store, and come home with “treasures”. I indulge myself at a small cost this way, and pick up tiny flowered egg cups, pitchers for my collection, and a pretty bit of decorative lace for my overflowing fabric and sewing stash. My motto for years was “you can never have enough fabric”. Or maybe it was books. Um maybe it was … you get the idea.
It is enough. I have more than enough. I will store the pretties and the broken plates once again… and one day give them all away. I will then be truly free of the need to cart my life around in totes and boxes, newspaper and bubble wrap.
Now I know this might sound sort of sorry… but let me ask you this, reader… If you were to move to a drastically small, but basically free, home next week, how much would you sell, give away, or put in storage?
So I am writing about the process, and in this way, working my way through it as the pretties disappear into boxes and the walls clear of pictures and “Stuff”. And it feels good… cleansing… lightening… letting go of what is truly unimportant to make room for what is.
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