The house.
I have a talent. My talent is gathering Stuff. For someone who moves almost every year and a half, I have a tremendous amount of stuff. I feel like I get rid of it all and like a starfish, it grows back.
this time, no.
It's just...we have a two story HOUSE here. It's huge for two people. And up until a week ago every time you opened a
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We have a walk in closet in our guest room that was really a repository of all our junk. Last weekend my husband cleaned it out and found boxes and boxes of mementoes.
I look at it and I think, how am I going to get this organized?
One tote for son, one for daughter, one for his family, one for my family, one for us (which is mostly trips we've taken).
But drudging through this detritus of living, is hard. Melancholic. Sad.
I feel as though I am dying.
And I feel like I've wasted time.
my babies grown.
My dogs dead.
My family no more.
Sometimes opening up closets is like being fileted with a reality stick.
(How's that for mixed metaphores?)
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There's a part of me that reaches some critical point where I just want to throw it all out, memories or not.
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Not enough, probably. I'm a very sentimental person, and I enjoy having things in my house that make my home feel comfy and welcoming, that remind me of people, of travels, of periods of my life. I love books and having lots of them around me.
I am lucky, though, to be in a position where I can have stuff, because at this time in my life, I don't have to move often, and, I did not have the sort of childhood that involved frequent moves ( ... )
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I learned this from my mother as a child. Her AAUW group was having a book sale? Must be time for me to cull my books so she can donate them to the sale. Her synagogue was having a garage sale? Must be time to cull my toys. And so on.
In this respect buying a house was a terrible idea. When I changed apartments every two years I had a built in excuse to go through my stuff and get rid of it; now I have to fight to do it.
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