clean sweep

A number of factors over the last several months inspired the rampage I went on today, through the house, every room, closet and cranny, mercilessly chucking anything and everything that couldn't first convince me it served a purpose outside consuming precious space.
Topping the list of reasons, I suppose, is the fact that I have recently aquired a husband, who also owns things and would like very much to have a place to put them (that's not at his parents house).

Add to that my recent travels around England and the uber cool homes I visited that were orderly and charming and not teeming with way too much anything (the exception being the hairbrush collection in Clederscroft B&B in Cornwall and a neighbouring tearoom that had dozens upon dozens and dozens and dozens of tea cups - NOT to photograph - hanging from the ceiling).

Also, it's spring. The sun is out. The air is fresh and rejuvinating and I actually feel, for a change, like organizing and cleaning.

And lastly - but perhaps most importantly - I helped my mum's friend (who will remain nameless but she's now my next-door-neighbour) move before Christmas and you wouldn't believe her rooms full of JUNK - we're talking floor to ceiling with boxes in every room, with little paths carved out between them for walking space, and that's not just because she was moving. It seriously made me question how valuable things are when you have so many that they control you and not the other way round.

So I've started a pile, in the studio, with books, hair curlers, a crimping iron, hats I haven't worn in five years, hair accessories, clothes, clothes, more clothes, little boxes, a smashed-and-glues-together-again tea set, purses, shoes, CDs, blankets, trinkets . . . in short, an accumulation of things I've been holding onto - whether through greed or sentimentality - for waaaaaaay to long.

Portrait of a Junk Pile: a detail from my collection

Time to liberate them. And me.

We're having a garage sale May 21 - me, my mum, my sister, my grandma and anyone else who's trash might be someone's treasure (Judy, perhaps??). What doesn't sell (at least of my things) will be donated to ADRA shortly after. It's not coming home.

And now, before I start again, I want to ask myself, why? Why do I hold onto these things? Little scraps of paper, a
theatre ticket, a newspaper clipping, an old pair of shoes worn someplace interesting? They're not the memory itself, but to venerate them by holding on when what you really need is some space ... it really is a kind of madness. Like a little squirrel collecting way more nuts than it will ever eat, just because it can. It's a gluttony of a different sort. And I think I'm ready for a material diet.

The problem is, it's after it's all gone that you suddenly need just exactly the pair of shoes you just sold because they're the only ones that would go with a new dress. Or, after not needing a wrench for the seven years I've lived here, the week after someone else buys it is when I'll have some sort of emergency that that wrench could have helped me out of. It never fails. But I'm going to risk it. I'll buy another wrench, if the situation warrents. For now, Everything! Must! Goooo!

I'll let you know how well it goes.