Tell me if you’ve heard this one before… Just as we’ve established the “new normal” (which is to say the same, old normal, but in a new place) and I finally feel like I’m getting a handle on things, we go and foo everything up.
Yupper-doo, we’re moving again this month.
However, this time it won’t be across the country or across the ocean. It’s barely even across town. We’re going from one gorgeous house to another equally gorgeous, but slightly smaller house with a bigger yard and a koi pond.
Yes, a koi pond.
We’re moving to accommodate Mike’s commute and erratic work schedule while still allowing us to maintain just one car (and my sanity). And that is all I wish to comment on the situation.
That is all I wish to comment, because the last time I attempted to explain the details to someone, she quickly offered to lend me the book she was reading… something about “it’s all just stuff” or “materialism is eating your soul” or some such…
This is my third move in 18 months. THIRD.
I know exactly how many boxes it takes to move our household. 243.
I know exactly how much it all weighs, including furniture. 34,421 lbs.
I’ve purged, purged, and purged again. No one knows better than yours truly what we need or don’t need.
“Just get rid of all of it,” she continued. “Besides it sounds like you really need the money more…”
Oh-kay, barring the otherwise totally crass assumption about money, (This IS Northern California, after all. Cost of living is ree-dunk-culous for everyone. It’s a given.) I wondered why I was left so miffed and insulted by my pal’s well-meaning, but misplaced helpfulness…
A quick look around my house later that same day made me realize why. It’s not just stuff.
I know. I know. Clearly, the last words of a drowning, delusional woman, but really…. It’s Not. Just. STUFF.
It’s the beautiful spoils of the life Mike and I have cultivated for ourselves…
It’s the books and artwork we found while honeymooning in Spain. The posters from the films towards which Mike’s dedicated his time and talent. An antique sign and an etching found on London’s Portabello Road. An oil painting of “Michael the Archangel” (our family’s patron saint) discovered in the back of a warehouse specializing in chintzy costume jewelry. Wedding photos. Baby photos. The Christmas ornaments Mike’s mom lovingly crafts for each of her grandchildren each year. A hand-carved “Last Supper” that once hung in my parents’ house, and on and on…
It may “just be stuff” to some, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s the only thing that makes living here, there, or anywhere… HOME.
