It’s not about what you’ve lost…
I think minimalism is misunderstood, or at least what I mean by minimalism. It is sometimes portrayed as a harsh ascetic, a kind of magazine lifestyle to try on for appearances, rather than part of an internal process of peeling away the layers of the onion to discover who you really are…
I feel anything but harsh about my remaining possessions. I feel really warm towards this chair which at the last minute I have decided to keep. Previously it was stuck in the corner of the dining room, the door used to bash into it. It used to belong to my grandmother, when I was a little girl I used to think that the ‘buttons’ on it did the doorbell. It took me years to realise that couldn’t have been true. Even now I wonder if someone somehow hooked it up to the door bell but no, it was just my imagination.
The little mother of pearl inlaid octagonal table (which belonged to my great grandmother and which I coveted as a child and gave to my son), has pinged back to me, and I am pleased.
Three plastic boxes of what I call ‘family heirlooms:’ cuddly toys that were mine or my son’s, children’s books, folders of his childhood drawings and school books.
One A4 box file of personal items of mine: photos of me with different hair and clothes, photocopied poems and favourite pages of books, a print out of a page on ‘love and spirituality;’ I turned to Google when I couldn’t understand what was happening when I met my husband. The strange pain in my chest, the way the sky split open…
Camping stuff, which can be left in my car. My husband’s bicycle. Bedding. All to be left at my mum’s. (At last, I have a functional amount of decent bedding and towels, rather than two linen chests’ worth of mainly scratchy old towels, saving the nice ones for guests or best or some kind of treat day that never came.)
Snow boots, Wellington boots. A few basic kitchen items. A box of tools.
A small box of joint personal items; a framed picture of the Goddess Lakshmi, a few ornaments and a few books.
A backpack each, from the India drawer; probably can’t take it all, haven’t practiced packing yet.
It’s not Stuff that shows what you’ve done with your life, it’s your Life.
We really are moving. In England the system is that even though the person has offered to buy your house and you accepted their offer, you can’t feel safe until contracts have been exchanged. (The buyer has to put up 10% at this time and would lose the money if they pulled out.) However, this can take weeks, and means a lot of hanging by the phone. Our contracts were meant to exchange at the end of last week, then it was meant to be Monday of this week, which was the week I was leaving work. The thought of having to come back with my tail between my legs was, well…. ‘Exchange’ happened on Tuesday, just in time. It felt something like this:
The other evening I went round my son’s and we were chatting, about Elon Musk, Jim Carey and about how nice Keanu Reeves is, link provided there, just in case I am not the only one who didn’t know.
I have set up an Instagram account for when we are travelling followingthebrownrabbit
Thank you very much for reading