After living with roommates one way or another for years I can still really enjoy my little home. All mine. Well, mine and the bank’s but hey, I don’t have to share with anybody. I can totally do whatever I please. Be awake in the middle of the night, go to sleep in the middle of the day. Not that I often sleep during the day, but I could.
My home is filled with stuff. Still I don’t really care much for materialistic things. I can do without jewelry, expensive furniture and upholstery. Everything in my house is filled with stories. Every item has its own memories. And at times I can just sit, look around and feel the richest woman on this planet.
Its value is not monetary. Other people probably wouldn’t want it if I gave it away for free. ‘Nah junk!’ no thank you. But to me, it’s precious. My home is small, so I can’t fit much more stuff in. That’s why I started to bravely discard some knick knacks I thought I could do without. Who needs 12 plates, right? And 24 cups? No, not me. My table seats 4 people at the most. Even when I throw a little buffet-style dinner party, not more than 10 people fit in my living room.
Throw it out
So, I decided I would throw anything I hadn’t used in over a year, out. It didn’t go very well. Every item told me its own story. ‘Have you forgotten, Ellen, how much fun we had once upon a time? And now I’m gonna end my days in the garbage can?’ No, couldn’t do it.
Of course there were few exceptions. A smudged glass I could never get to sparkle again. A broken plate. Burnt candles that maybe would give me another 10 minutes of light. Gone, all of them. One thing I noticed though, is that when you start to de-clutter, so many forgotten memories pop up.
We’re emptying my moms’ home. She’s gone and we get to keep her life in memories. It’s probably the hardest thing I ever had to do. ‘Cause everything, literally everything, has its own meaning. But my house is filled. I cannot put anything else in there. My sister’s place is pretty much full as well. So we had to be strict.
Everything paper and writing supplies I have to still fit in. My sister takes everything to do with paint and painting supplies. My dad wrote tens and tens of diaries, I found a spot in my bookcase. A few photographs, calligraphy, pens, they are safe. An old (maybe even antique) letter scale found its way to my desk. And books. So many books.
I look around. My house is my home. I love it. I feel very grateful and happy to be home. Home amongst all my memories. Now don’t think I’m this old spinster only living from memories. I plan to make many, many more each and every day. But as long as I have a base, a home, to come back to, I’m the luckiest woman in the world.