Transition

My kid has this saying: If it doesn't matter in 10 years, it doesn't matter now. Apparently, that sentiment is courtesy of my mother. And, while I totally don't get with it as a justification for academic laziness, I have to say it's apt when it comes to all of the things that we bring home and keep.

To wit: We've been culling (intermittently) for 2 years - to prepare for a reno (which was more theoretical than actual till recently). Every weekend my husband does an hour of recon/reorg/recycle in the basement - and I assist. We are endlessly productive as goes divestment of stuff, but there's always more to contend with. And I'm one of those people who culls extensively. I mean, I'm a cusp minimalist.

Admittedly, my husband is a pack rat of sorts. He's not a hoarder but he can find a sustainable use for just about anything. And really, we've benefited endlessly from his storage of certain odd-ball nails or tools or pieces of wood and plastic. So it's difficult for me to blame him given that this world is teeming with unnecessary duplication and waste.

But it's easy for things to pile up as a kind of metaphor for sustenance. Don't misunderstand - when I say easy I mean, for a divester, it can take a long time. But eventually I'll fill a drawer with things that never see the light of day. Today, I went through one of my night-stands and discovered that more than half of the contents were obsolete. In truth, I found only a couple of letters and keepsakes that were dear to me still. But I also rediscovered a dove-shade cashmere wrap - originally bought for 250 bucks (like, 15 years ago) from Ewanika. It's almost etiolated but in perfect condition. It's perhaps the only thing I've ever stored (rather than worn) because of its dearness and perceived delicacy. Generally, I find that path absurd. I really don't know what element of my psyche has condemned this beautiful garment to the darkness of a wooden drawer as it's in the top-10 of the most perfect textures I've ever worn. No mind. What's done is done. I'm wearing now it as I type.

I'm ruthless when it comes to the craft supplies (and fruits thereof). If it doesn't work, if it doesn't thrill, I give it away. I'm pretty tough on the perishables of the wardrobe too. But how do I toss the last, little white plastic ball that fit into M's Fisher Price box (long gone). How do I say goodbye to the note from my one-time 5 year old, scribbled and misspelled: Pleez dont be mad at me. What about the letter wherein my mother tried to explain to the 4-year-old in me that moving to England was a veritable necessity? Is there any usefulness in half-completed journals?

My point is that, while I'm not vulnerable to sentiment, the edge of nostalgia touches even someone as practical as I happen to be.

I urge myself to keep an eye on things, not because they'll overwhelm me with their eternal concreteness (there's always a charity or, in worst case, a landfill to accommodate them) but because, if they're worthy or useful, I need to remember them. A closed door that acts like dam is very different than one which stores treasures.

But you've got to catalog those treasures. It keeps one honest, no?

Fairy Tales

Let me tell you an intriguing story.

Once upon a time there was a professional woman / mother / blogger / sewist / knitter. This woman loved all of her many pursuits purely, and with conviction.

One winter, she was called to interview for a new job - an interesting one. Given the parameters and conventions of her industry, she worked for many hours to prepare. She studied the role, queried the experts. She attended a panel interview. She answered scary questions. She completed an assignment.

She was not called to shortlist.

While that wasn't a thrilling outcome, soon the spring came along and, like buds on the trees, so did new opportunity arrive. In a creative twist, the woman was offered the chance to compete for a new position, having the same title, meeting with the very same panel, alors, even in the very same room. Naturally, there were key differences between the two experiences but, in the main, there was a sense of deja vu.

The woman was not exactly confident in the process or the outcome. But she tried again because her parents (and folklore) instilled in her the belief that first success is not a requirement. Also, she's nervy.

Delightfully, she was offered the second role, one which entails even more exciting features than she originally imagined, one which she accepted, not without consideration. And everyone is hopeful that she will excel and live happily ever after.

Spoiler Alert: The woman is me.

I tell this tale to alert you to my new circumstances, and to advise you that I really have no idea of how I'm going to be able to manage a (likely intense) new job, parenting a tween, being married to a guy who's frankly fed up with my obsessive crafting, obsessively crafting - and blogging.

There are few things I love more than writing, than communicating with a community of like-minded souls. But it is possible that I'm going to need to prioritize other things over this blog for the next while because there's a razor-fine edge between what makes you what you are and what keeps you from what you need to become.

All this is to say nothing. I am not making a dramatic exit from the blog world. This blog is as much a facet of me as any other part of my identity. Damn straight, I'm not going to chop it off. Alas, I may be brief, or even absent, for a while. (Then again, you know me, it'll probably be business as usual. You know how I love to fuck with expectation and get all creative at the strangest times.)

Please stick around as we have many exciting adventures ahead. And thank you so much for your patience. xo