Finally our old house is no longer ours. No more treks over there by foot through 12 degree temperatures or snow storms to meet inspectors or the buyer or to clean rooms and box or trash paraphernalia lurking in deep, dark corners.

Finally the house where I lived longer than any other (nearly 15 years) is mine no more to step into and walk through its rooms.

Hallelujah! It is so time to move on. To remember the myriad special times, but to move on, nonetheless, and prepare for great times in our new tiny place and all the places to come.

Tom and I love our little cottage house. Life feels simpler there. Comforting. Easy, cozy and sweet.

But what concerns me? The way we're utterly content living with only one-third of our possessions. Hmm... definitely a lesson there. I hope I will remember it.

I watch the show, Clean House, everyday (I'm so addicted) and I see people cry when they release their possessions in order to make paths for newer, more organized rooms. I watch the pain-filled tugging inside them when part of them wants to let go but another part is afraid, especially when the items are gifts from family. And well, I would sit before the screen and giggle, "What a bunch of obsessive loonies," except that I experienced the same struggles last year. So I sit and understand and empathize, crying with them, instead.

Stuff... too much stuff. What a curse when we cannot let go. And how sad when the table dear ol' Great Aunt Mary gave us somehow has become Great Aunt Mary. Because really, that table is not her. An inanimate object is not a living, breathing person--and never will be.

A table is a table and even the torn, faded quilt Grandmother made is still, well, a quilt. It is we who attach all sorts of mystical feelings to stuff. And somewhere in the middle, we lose sight of what's alive and what's going to Heaven with us. And what is not.

And Grandmother becomes her torn and faded quilt. And to let go of the quilt is to let go of Grandma and see her die all over again. Hence, the pain.

Well, anyway, these are my thoughts lately while I recuperate from a year of purging our belongings and while I watch others purge their stuff on Clean House. Oh the angst and suffering--but the joy at the sight of clean, organized rooms! Rather like the joy which comes on sunny mornings after weeks of dark clouds and much rain.


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Does anyone else watch Clean House? Niecy Nash is my new favorite person! I'd love to have her come to my tiny cottage and talk, simply just talk while I would sit, listening to her. Niecy is so very different from me and she makes me laugh aloud. I welcome anyone into my life who can do that.