On Stuff (Blog #1025)

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Lately I’ve been thinking about stuff, partly because I’ve been buying, or at least acquiring, so much of it lately. Nothing major, mind you, just little things. Brooches, books, picture frames, magnets, t-shirts, shoes. And whereas I don’t have NEARLY the amount of stuff I owned before I had my estate sale, it’s still the most I’ve had in the last three years. Granted, I’m enjoying it. I’ve got everything organized and displayed like I want, and my room feels cozy. Comforting. At the same time, there are moments when everything I have feels like “too much,” too much to own, too much to take care of. Earlier today my friend Aaron gave me several of his old t-shirts, and I thought, Okay, fine, I’ll take five of them. But I’m going to give away at least two of mine.

Since The Great Letting Go a few years ago, one of my “rules” about owning something is that I must find it useful, that I actually wear my clothes, actually get joy out of my books and knickknacks. That’s one thing I can say about the stuff I’ve acquired lately. Although I often feel like I spend too much time on Facebook Marketplace (searching for and buying brooches), I do get a lot of pleasure out of the things I purchase. What’s more, having taken time to get everything in my room (where I am now) just so, I always feel at home here. I always feel at peace here.

My therapist says stuff is grounding, so maybe that’s why the sudden compulsion to acquire. That is, at the same time I had my estate sale, I intentionally pulled up my roots–closed my dance studio, moved homes (twice), started down a new career path. In retrospect, it was a lot at once, a bit dramatic. Still, owning fewer things made all the changes easier. Not just from a physical perspective, but from a mental and emotional one. All I had to do was look at my bookshelf (with fifty-four books, down from over three hundred) or my closet (with eight shirts, down from dozens), and it was clear–I was starting over. And whereas I’ll never be able to prove it, I believe that my downsizing set the stage for this blog and all my personal growth that’s come as a result of it.

What I mean is that if you can let go of a physical object, you can let go of a mental concept. A limiting belief about yourself, for example. A harmful thought about another. Byron Katie says you’re not attached to your things, you’re attached to your stories about your things, and this is what I mean. If you’re holding on to something physical, you’re holding on to something mental–a thought, a story. Whenever you say, “This has sentimental value” or “I can’t sell those old plastic curlers; they belonged to my dead aunt,” you’re saying you can’t let go of your narrative about them. Because the truth is you CAN let go of your stuff. You do it every day when you go to work. Leaving everything you own (except your current outfit) behind you, you prove to yourself that you don’t HAVE to own a thing in order to survive or be happy.

I mean, how do you know you’ll ever see all that stuff again? And yet you just walk out the door.

Getting back to the idea of stuff being grounding, I think it’s fascinating that at the same time I was letting go my stuff, I was letting go of how I saw myself and the world. Likewise, I find it fascinating that having grounded my concepts of self and the world (for the better), I’m now beginning to physically ground. That is, as my therapist says, stuff is heavy. It’s hard to move around. This is what you want your self-esteem, your kindness, and your compassion to be–solid, not easily pushed about. Even when I get excited about new stuff/cool stuff, this is what I remind myself, that stuff is just stuff and it will ALWAYS come and go. Nothing lasts forever, not even gold. But a soul that’s at home, at peace regardless of what it owns or doesn’t? Now that’s real gold. That’s something moth and rust can’t touch.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Even a twisted tree grows tall and strong.

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The Grace of Forgiveness (Blog #887)

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Something my therapist and I almost never talk about is forgiveness. “I just think it’s a really personal thing,” she says whenever we do talk about it. I agree. I grew up in the church and know all the admonitions–forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors, forgive seventy times seven. And yet in my experience forgiveness has never been something I’ve been able to force myself to do even though it comes highly recommended by our lord and savior Jesus Christ. It’s not like taking out the trash, a task you accomplish even if your heart’s not in it. No, when it comes to forgiveness, you have to mean it.

I’m talking about this now because this morning in my Facebook memories a quote popped up from Caroline Myss: “Identify one piece of unfinished business (this could be a person or a task), then do one thing to bring it to closure. If you find that you’re unable to do so, you’ve identified a major power leak and a serious block to your healing. Your goal: to understand that all experiences either make you bitter or better.”

For me, my unfinished business was, well, a number of people. I’ll explain. Since starting therapy I’ve consciously ended–or at least put on hold–quite a few relationships. Like, enough to seem ridiculous. And whereas I don’t regret any of these choices, I do think in several cases I could have gone about it better. Granted, I only know this in hindsight, since I’ve learned other, better ways of communicating. This being said, there are several people that if I were to run into them, it would be awkward. “Let it be awkward,” my therapist says. Still, these situations, these people, feel like unfinished business to me.

Now, whenever I feel like something needs to be done about a less-than-perfect relationship, my first reaction is to show up on someone’s doorstep and say, “We need to talk.” However, I know what it feels like to KNOW a conversation needs to be had, and I didn’t feel that this morning–about anyone. What I did feel, however, was that for–well, a bunch of folks–I needed to take one small but specific step toward closure. (What step, Marcus?) I’m glad you asked. I needed to pray for them.

Once a friend in Alcoholics Anonymous told me one way to get over resentment was to pray for the person you’re pissed off at–for thirty days. “Keep it simple,” they said. “Pray for their health and happiness and be done with it.”

“Even if I don’t mean it?” I said.

“Even if you don’t mean it.”

The good news is that as I went through “my list” this morning, I did mean it. May you be happy, healthy, and free of suffering, I thought as I imagined each person. Then I added, I release you to the universe. In a few cases, I felt resistance–like, screw them–and I figured this was a good sign that I absolutely needed to keep up the exercise. Occasionally I find myself in mental arguments with people (Fuck you, Nancy!), and this too, I think, is a sign that there’s unfinished business or something to forgive. My AA friend says that neutrality is the goal when it comes to your “enemies.” You don’t have to feel warm and fuzzy about them, but you do need to stop hating them. You need to sop fantasizing about humiliating them on national television.

Or is that just me?

Caroline says this is the deal when we’re unwilling to forgive–we can’t give up our desire for control, our desire for vengeance. It’s why I added the line about releasing the person to the universe. Personally, I’ve come to the point where all those fantasies about evening the score with people are just too heavy to carry. So let the universe deal with the sons of bitches. I’m tired of thinking about them. I have other shit to do.

Another thing Caroline says is that for every person you struggle to forgive, consider that someone else is struggling to forgive you. And also–for everyone you’re in therapy over, consider that someone else is in therapy over you. Ouch, I know. Still, I find comfort in the idea that everyone has their side of the story because it reminds me to not get too married to mine. Whether on purpose or not, I know I’ve caused other people pain. That’s something I tried to remember as I thought of the people in my life that push my buttons–I only know my side of the story. I push people’s buttons too.

Tonight I sprayed a friend’s fence with bleach then washed it off with a hose in order to remove years worth of dirt, grime, and algae. And whereas it was successful, I could do it two more times and there’d still be gunk on the fence. Sometimes I think forgiveness is like this–something that requires more than one pass. There’s an idea that the only reason you need to forgive someone is because you judged them in the first place (think about that), and maybe this is why it can take a long time to forgive. We have to come to a different understanding about what happened. We have to judge differently. These things don’t happen overnight.

Other times I think, You either forgive or you don’t. When I had my estate sale I let go of a lot of physical items. Three years later, they’re still gone. This means I really let them go. I didn’t half let them go. For me, this is the goal of forgiveness–letting go all the way. Not hanging on to resentment even a little. As my friend Randy used to say, “Set it free. Set it free.”

For me, freedom is the goal, and I think forgiveness is one of the best vehicles to get there. Because who suffers when you’re pissed off, angry at, or resentful toward someone else? That’s right, you do. That being said, I used to view forgiveness as a way to get out of having to have difficult conversations or to set boundaries with people. Like, I’ll just forgive them, and then I won’t have to stand up for myself. This doesn’t work. (I repeat, this doesn’t work.) This, I think, is why my therapist doesn’t push forgiveness. In terms of fixing problems in your life and relationships, and these are my words not hers, it’s not a heavy lifter. Yes, it can heal what nothing else can, but if you’re being abused, it’s more important for you to get the hell out of dodge than to be forgiving. Once you’re safe, then you can forgive. This is the grace of forgiveness–it keeps the anger and the angst from continuing. It stops you from abusing you (and others). It ends the past and lets you be free right here, right now. Of course, forgiving someone doesn’t mean you’ll want to go to dinner with them. (If things were really bad, you probably won’t.) It does mean, I’ve had enough suffering. I’m moving on with my life.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Patting yourself on the back is better than beating yourself over the head.

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The Perfect Front (#472)

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When I lived in The Big House for a few years, I had a lot of chandeliers, only one of which sold during my estate sale, what I call The Great Letting Go. Since I moved in with my parents last year, all my leftover lamps and lights have been in the garage collecting dust, getting periodically kicked or moved around. A few times I’ve tried to sell them on Facebook or Craigslist, but to no avail. Finally, a couple weeks ago I decided to dust them off and bring them in. Now two of the lights are hanging in my room (I wrote about one of them here), and three are hanging in a spare closet.

All safe and sound.

This afternoon I determined to bring in the final chandelier, my favorite one, actually. I’ve been putting it off because it’s loaded with crystals, and I’ve assumed some of them were broken or damaged during the move or while in storage. Plus, there’s not really a “great” place to hang it here at Mom and Dad’s. Our ceilings are low, and this thing is somewhat substantial and dramatic. It needs a big space. But I thought, Hanging it is better than not hanging it. At least then I’ll get to look at it.

Well–immediately after taking down the old light fixture, I realized I’d have to go to Lowe’s for a few supplies. I’ll spare you all the details, but I needed some hooks to secure the chandelier to the fixture box (in the ceiling), as well as a medallion. (The “hood” of the chandelier, the part that goes flush to the ceiling, is three inches in diameter, but the ceiling hole is four. I figured a medallion with a three-inch hole would solve this problem.) Of course, all of Lowe’s medallions have the standard four-inch opening, still too big for my chandelier’s particular hood to cover up. Shit, I’ll have to improvise, I thought.

For over an hour, I strolled around Lowe’s and then Walmart, looking for something–anything–I could turn into a suitable ceiling medallion. FINALLY I stumbled across a set of small, circular sunburst mirrors and thought, Eureka–I can take out one of the mirrors and fasten the frame to the ceiling!

If none of this makes sense, stick with me. I promise I won’t go all Bob Vila on your ass and tell you everything that happened next, step by step. Suffice it to say, in home decoration and repair, everything is a process. But here’s the most important thing–when I got home from Walmart, I took out the actual mirror part of the mirror I liked the best, then drilled several one-inch holes into its plastic backing. Here’s what it looked like when I was done.

At this point, I was ready to hang the chandelier. So that’s what I did. And whereas I was all worried about the crystals being broken or damaged, not a single one was. In fact, only three of them had slipped off. (So I slipped them right back on.) Here’s what it looks like now that I’m completely finished. (Ta-da!)

This afternoon my inner perfectionist was all a-twitter about the chandelier. Even after my taking out all the extra chain links, it really does hang a bit low for our ceilings. Also, since the mirror wasn’t made to be a medallion, it’s not “exactly” flush to the ceiling. And–I think–it’s a little small for the size of the chandelier itself. But I’ve been reminding myself–1) The chandelier is gorgeous, better than what was there before, 2) No one besides me will notice or care, and 3) A small medallion, in this case, is better than no medallion at all.

Now I’m absolutely thrilled that the light is inside. I really do adore it. While dusting it this afternoon, I noticed that–honestly–there’s nothing perfect about it. (And that’s okay.) Each crystal is hung by a bent piece of wire, and every single piece is different. (I assume they were made by hand.) Also, the carousels that hold the hooks (and therefore the crystals) are all bent. Maybe they were made that way or have just warped slightly over the years. I mean, it is an antique. But really, what a ridiculous idea–perfection. As if there is such a thing.

Whom are you really kidding?

Earlier when I started to take tonight’s selfie, I decided to turn around. There’s a saying in psychology–the back is as big as the front–and since my front gets plenty of attention on this blog (God knows), I figured my back should get some too. I’m being cheeky here (and in the photo), but there really is something to this idea. We all have this face we show to the world–the one that smiles, the one that’s “nice,” the one that lives in the house where everything is “just so.” The Perfect Front. But that’s all it is–a front. I mean, whom are you really kidding? You want your chandeliers and pictures to hang perfectly straight? Good fucking luck. Life is messy and emotional. In fact, it’s damn ugly at times. That’s what The Imperfect Back is–all the things we don’t want to look at, all the parts of ourselves and the world we think are bad or wrong or embarrassing. But these parts deserve our attention too and (like my chandelier) are worthy of being seen. Plus, we forget that it’s not ultimately about The Perfect Front OR The Imperfect Back. It’s never about what’s outside, what’s physical. It’s about what’s inside, the light.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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For all of the things life takes away, it gives so much more in return. Whether we realize it or not, there’s always grace available.

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Intended to Wear Out (Blog #464)

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It’s just after midnight, and for the last fourteen hours I’ve been working like a stereotypical man, helping some friends clean out, declutter, and throw away in preparation for a potential move. My friends, who are self-described “pack rats” or “hoarders” said, “We know you’ll be able to help us get rid of things.”

I said, “You’ve come to the right place.”

Essentially hired to say, “Throw that away,” and ” Donate that” over and over again, that’s what I did all morning, afternoon, and evening. Plus, I helped unpack, pack, and move around a lot of boxes. By the time the day was done, my friends and I managed to clean out two storage units and a garage and haul off three loads of trash. Plus, we made three trips to the donation station.

During our last charity drop-off, the teenager working the door said, “Welcome back.”

I’m really trying to keep this short. I’m tired, exhausted, sore, and filthy. I smell and need to take a shower. Still, I’m extremely grateful that my body rose to the task today. It definitely hit a wall there at the end, but did a fabulous job. I’ve spent a lot of time whining or at least being disappointed in my body these last many months, so I’d like to be clear–I appreciate the good days.

All our possessions are junk.

Near the dumpster where we took the trash today, there was an old car, a Dodge. The back windshield was busted, two doors were missing, and the whole thing was so covered in rust that it looked as if it had survived Armageddon. I crawled in the trunk, played around in the back “seat.” (There was no back seat.) Not being “a car guy,” I tried to imagine what the car once was. I can only guess beautiful, shiny, top of the line, since not only did it have air conditioning, but it also had settings for “summer” and “winter.” My point is this–it’s junk now. Having been through my own “moving sale” and having sorted through several other people’s stuff before and including today–honestly–I think all our possessions are junk. (What are you going to do with them when you die?) I’m not saying get rid of everything you value (or that I don’t value anything I own–I do!), but I am saying keep it in perspective. Know what’s really important. Because physical things are intended to wear out, meant to be used and enjoyed and then discarded. This includes all our keepsakes, collectibles, cars, and bodies.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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When you hide your hurt, you can’t help but pass it on. It ends up seeping, sometimes exploding out.

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Marcus and the Beanstalk (Blog #97)

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This evening I learned that the story of Jack and the Beanstalk is basically about sex. (As Joey on Blossom used to say, “Whoa!”) Remember how Jack gets sent to the market to sell their cow, Milky White, and he trades it for magic beans instead? Well, apparently Milky White represents the mother’s milk, the dependency of the child on his parents. The beans represent Jack’s personal seed, his puberty, his coming of sexual age. And the beanstalk? Well, that’s Jack’s penis. Oh my, look how it grows!

Take all the time you need to process this information.

This afternoon I was on the phone four different times regarding the car accident I was in last week. The first phone call was minutes after I woke up, and I don’t mind saying the lady at Allstate was a bitch. Uh, ma’am, I don’t feel as if I’m in good hands right now. Maybe she was doing her job, but she was rude. I realize a lot of people take advantage of the system, but it sucks to have the shit knocked out of you first by a car, and then by an insurance agent.

The good news is that after the company made an offer for my totaled car, I countered, and today we compromised at seventy percent of the difference in my favor. So I’m getting ninety-four percent of what I asked for. Or, as the rude lady on the phone said, “You will IF we accept liability.”

“Oh,” I said. “Is that still a question?”

The next lady I talked to was my specific case manager, and she was delightful–also doing her job, but delightful. She explained that liability had not been accepted only because they hadn’t spoken to their client yet, the gentleman who hit me. So that’s just standard. She also said that they gave me a rental car prematurely, but not to worry about it. But then she called back and said, “You might want to worry about it–take it back until we’ve decided for sure that we’re liable. Otherwise you might have to pay for it yourself.”

“Well shit.”

So I put on my shoes and was about to walk out the door, but then she called back–like–it’s me again, Margaret. “Okay, don’t worry! I spoke with our client. You don’t have to take the car back. You’re good to go.” I said, “Thank you!” and thought, If we talk one more time today, I’m going to feel obligated to invite you to my wedding.

Amongst everything else, the lady and I talked about how reimbursement for the car would work, how medical coverage and payment would work, and how she’ll be calling every seven to ten days to check up on my progress. Meet my new best friend, the insurance agent. The next time she calls I’m going to ask who her celebrity crush is. Just based on her phone personality, I’m going to guess she’d say Taye Diggs, and I could definitely support that. Me too, girl. Me too.

Despite the fact that things are going as well as possible, I’m really anxious to have it all settled, get the reimbursement check, and purchase a new car. (I picked one out yesterday, and it’s being held. Details will be forthcoming. Now you can be anxious with me.) Additionally, spending all that time on the phone today–being a damn adult–wore me out. I always feel like I’m on the defensive in these situations, watching out for every dollar. (It’s not like I have a goose that lays golden eggs over here!) And I hate that. I’d much rather assume the best of people and trust everyone. I’d also much rather have a goose that lays golden eggs.

This evening I felt like I needed to do something for me. So for the first time in over six months, I drove my antique car, a 1977 Mercury Comet. It’s name is Garfield (because it’s orange, duh). Y’all, I’m not a car person, but I’m a THAT CAR person. I LOVE Garfield. I got him in 2005, the same year I opened my dance studio, and he’s perfect for spring, summer, and fall evenings, since he doesn’t have working air conditioning. But he’s super handsome, has a V8 engine, and gets lots of compliments from old guys at gas stations. (Ooh-la-la.) Honestly, he’s one of my favorite possessions–ever.

Last year when I had my estate sale, I decided it was time to say goodbye to Garfield. It took a while, but I made peace with the idea, especially since I thought the extra money would help get me to Austin. Well, the sale came and went, but no one made an offer on Garfield. So for the last several months, he’s sat in my parents driveway collecting dust and working on a nice case of tire-rot. Every time I see him, I think I need to spruce him up, put him on Craigslist. But I’m always afraid he won’t sell or won’t sell for “enough,” and that makes me afraid that I’ll never get to Austin. Basically it’s been easier to pretend he’s not there.

But because I’m always happy when I’m driving him, I got him out tonight–checked his fluids, aired up his tires. I said I was going on an errand, but because I drove the back roads, it took an hour and a half to buy two bags of coffee. The wind in my hair, the roar of the engine, the weight of the all-metal car barreling down the road–I loved every minute of it. However, there was a faint feeling of sadness, like you might get if you were having lunch with your best friend and you knew it was one of the last times. Maybe one of you is moving and can’t take the other. You both know it’s best, you know you can’t stay together forever, but you don’t really want to say goodbye either.

Eventually you have to grow up and face your giants.

When Jack climbs the beanstalk, he’s confronted by the representation of his parents, the giant and his wife. This imagery represents Jack growing up, becoming an adult. Once or twice the giant’s wife protects Jack, hides him in an oven or whatever. Here the oven represents one’s desire to not grow up, but rather return to the womb.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, how nice it would be to be a child again, to be protected, to be taken care of. Isn’t that part of the reason we love fairy tales? Doesn’t everyone want someone to sweep them off their feet, some charming partner with whom to live happily ever after in a world without car wrecks and bitchy insurance agents? But obviously, that’s not the way it works, and some days being an adult is almost more than you can handle. (I don’t recommend being one if you can help it.) Of course, you can’t go back and be a kid again, at least not permanently. Maybe you get a few moments here and there, an hour free of responsibility, your foot on the gas of an antique car. But eventually you have to grow up and face your giants. Sooner or later, we all say goodbye.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Along the way you’ll find yourself, and that’s the main thing, the only thing there really is to find.

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Simplifying My Digital Life (Blog #48)

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This evening I went to the library and spent most my time cleaning up emails and going through saved links on Facebooks—articles I wanted to read, videos I wanted to watch. The process started when I saved a link and then noticed I had twenty others just like it. So after a couple hours, I’m down to seven, and I can’t tell you how good it feels to have marked so many items off my to-do list. But then again, I’m the type of person who sometimes adds items to my to-do list AFTER I’ve done them just so I can mark them off, so I may have a problem.

Don’t worry. I’m in therapy.

My “things to read/things to watch” list is something I’ve started consciously monitoring since I had the estate sale and seriously downsized the number of physical objects in my world. Since I don’t have a job, I have a lot of time on my hands, so I want to use it to clean up digitally and simplify my life even more than I already have.

For over ten years, anytime I surfed the Internet, I’d bookmark a page if I thought I would come back to it. Well, most of those bookmarks were all lumped together, so I’d end up with—for example—a recipe for Paleo brownies right next to an article about 36 Terms for Lesbians You Didn’t Know Existed. (My favorite continues to be “bumper-to-bumper.”) Anyway, it was impossible to find anything, so a couple of months ago while I was healing from sinus surgery, I went through EVERYTHING. In my typical anal-retentive fashion, I checked every link, decided whether or not I could still use it, and either deleted it or put it into a corresponding folder (Dance, Writing, GAYTHINGS). And here’s what’s great—I went from 2,000 bookmarks to 200—200, well-organized, anal-retentive bookmarks.

Personally, I think the Lord would approve.

When I had the estate sale, the biggest thing I had to come to terms with was getting rid of hundreds of books, most of which I had personally purchased with the intent to read. Plus, I tend to think that the written word is sacred, so it didn’t feel like I could get rid of them. But what tipped the scales for me was a little thing called honesty. One day, I admitted to myself that although I loved to read, I didn’t love to read as much as I thought I did. I kept thinking, I’ll read that one day, but one day never came.

Several years ago, a friend of mine who lost all her possessions in a fire told me that you don’t realize how much psychic weight your stuff takes up until it’s all gone. That phrase—psychic weight—has stuck with me ever since I heard it, and I think it went a long way in helping me let go when I had the estate sale. Now that almost everything is gone, I agree with my friend. I feel much lighter without the stuff. It’s less to take care of, fewer things to dust, hundreds of books I’m not telling myself I’ll read one day. In short, less stuff is less stress.

What I’ve found is that just like less physical stuff is less stress, so is less digital stuff. When I got rid of the hundreds of Internet bookmarks, it felt just as good as getting rid of the hundreds of books. In both cases, I ended up with not only something simpler, but also something much more manageable. But whereas it’s gotten easy for me to go shopping for three hours and not make a single purchase, I still fight the tendency to save links online and add videos to my Watch Later list. Sometimes I’ll watch one video and then immediately add three more “suggestions” to the cue. But psychic weight is psychic weight, and especially for a personality like mine, it’s stressful to add to-do list items faster than they could ever possibly be checked off.

I’m simply not ready for that kind of commitment.

Just after I started typing this tonight, I looked up a Facebook friend’s podcast and added it to my digital to-do list. But then a few minutes ago, I went back and deleted it because I’m already listening to three other podcasts, I honestly don’t have that much time in my life, and hell, I just met the person at a coffee shop one time, and I’m simply not ready for that kind of commitment.

Maybe it sounds like a little thing, but it feels like I just got thirty hours of my life back.

As I think about it now, I think the big sense of relief, that psychic weight that’s gone, is largely about the pressure I put on myself day in and day out. For the last thirty years, I’ve made a habit of thinking, I should read these books, I need to organize those things, and I can’t get rid of this thing because it was a gift. But the truth was that I wasn’t reading those books, I had other things to do other than organize, and I thought that gift was fucking hideous. So I let it all go, and the pressure went with it. The truth set me free.

Of course, old habits die hard. I get on the Internet and see so many shiny things that I want to read and watch and buy. But I’m only one person and there’s only so much time in the day and John Stamos is not for sale. And sure, I think it’s fine for me to want and to have shiny things, but as soon as a shiny thing becomes an excuse to should on myself (like I should read that, watch that, or dust that) then it has become my master and not my servant, and that’s not okay. After all, I’m the only shiny thing around here that gets to tell me what to do.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Solid help and solid hope are quite the same thing.

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the great letting go (blog #13)

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Several months ago, I sold most of my possessions in an estate sale. One by one, all my things were picked through, broken up, and sent in different directions. Before the sale, all my shit fit comfortably into a 3,000 square-foot house; now everything I own fits into my Honda Civic. There’s part of me that’s still shocked by what I did, willingly starting over and effectively hitting a giant “reset” button. Some days I wake up and think, I really should have kept a few more t-shirts or maybe a chair. It would be nice to have a chair right about now. But for the most part, I feel a lot lighter, less weighed down, and less attached. Plus, dusting goes A LOT faster.

I’ve noticed that when I go shopping, my experience is greatly different than it used to be. Before, I’d see so many things that I wanted, things I thought I had to have. Now, I see very little that I want. It’s like it’s got to be really attractive and useful (and be able to fit into my car) in order for me to even desire it, much less buy it.

The only piece of furniture I kept (other than a couple of lamps) is a mid-century modern bookcase. When I had the estate sale, I went through hundreds of books, and decided all the ones that went with me would have to fit on the shelf, which only has a capacity of about fifty. I told myself I would only keep a book if I truly loved it or thought it was important enough to read within the next year.

Well, the process did a few things. First, I’m left with the cutest little bookshelf, and I love every book that’s on it, so it brings me a lot of joy. Second, it took off the pressure I was putting on myself to read all the books I had paid for. In one big stroke, that was gone. Let someone else read them. Lastly and most importantly, it proved that I could let go of things that I love. (This is huge, since I’ve been hanging on to stuff since I was a child.)

I can’t say that letting go was easy. There were some bookshelves that my sister and I grew up with, and I thought she could get them in the sale, but she didn’t. When she found out, she cried, and some days I still wonder if I made a mistake in letting everything go. But then I think about one single book I found at a junk sale in Tulsa, and how that one book deeply changed my life. Someone decided to let that book go so that I could find it, and along with it I found my meditation practice, more peace, and more compassion for myself and others. So I can only trust that the things I let go of are working similar miracles for those who own them now.

My therapist says that a positive thing about “the great letting go” is that it’s helping to make me more discerning, that I’ll be more careful about my purchases in the future. Also, she says that letting go of all your stuff makes room for more stuff/better stuff. Well, I think she’s right about the discerning part, which is why I haven’t bought a lot of things in the last six months. As for the making room for more stuff/better stuff part, there’s definitely a lot of room over here, but the stuff hasn’t so much shown up yet. So I’m going to keep waiting, and I’ll have to get back to you on what happens. In other words, don’t go sell all your stuff and think that more stuff/better stuff is going to show up on your doorstep the next week. The universe doesn’t work that way. Apparently.

Tonight I had dinner with a dear friend of mine who’s one of the few truly magical people that I know. What I mean by that is that she hasn’t let life make her jaded. She’s still in love with the sound of leaves blowing in the wind.

When we said goodbye, my friend gave me a belated Christmas present, five crystals spheres made for hanging in a window, breaking up the light, and sending it dancing in different directions. “It’s for your new home, whenever you arrive there,” she said. “Every window should have these.”

So maybe more stuff/better stuff does just show up on your doorstep. And whether it happens little by little or all at once, I’m sure that at some point “the great letting go” will become “the great receiving” again. And whereas I used to think that the receiving was the exciting part, I’m starting to see the letting go as equally exciting. Just like light that hits a crystal, isn’t it beautiful when things are broken up and sent dancing in different directions?

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Nothing physical was ever meant to stay the same.

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