Storing stuff for a life I no longer lead

 



The lights went out. Complete darkness engulfed me.

I was straddling stacks of plastic bins while looking for my camping gear in my 10-by-10 storage unit. I didn't want to move for fear I'd upset the bins stacked high around me. So I waved my arms until the motion detector kicked the lights back on.

Blinking, I looked at the stacks of boxes surrounding me. My hand steadied myself on a cardboard box marked "platters" Back in my apartment, my four favorite Fiestaware platters in cobalt blue, yellow and red were on a shelf. Yet here was an entire box marked platters. How many platters did I need? I rarely used the four platters in my apartment.

Next to it I found a box marked "candles and vases." I knew I had one or two vases stored in my sideboard in my apartment. When was the last time I lit a candle or arranged flowers in a vase? How many candles and vases do I need?

Leaning against the wall was an enormous, clear Space Bag stuffed with surplus linens: kitchen towels, oven mitts, placemats, cloth napkins, tablecloths, extra sheets and towels. I haven't used any of those in four years since I hosted a holiday dinner at my big house.

I no longer have a big house. In my tiny apartment kitchen, I have exactly three oven mitts and one table cloth. I gave away my teak dining table to my friend, Henry, five moves ago. I eat at a tiny gate-leg table that began its life aboard a fishing boat. It bears the scars of cutting fish. It folds down to a one-by-three-foot footprint. And it doubles as a coffee table and workspace for my computer. In my old life, the fishing boat table had been relegated to a dusty corner. Now it's my only table.

In my old life, our dining table had been encircled by a matched set of six century-old prayer chairs from Saint Anne's Catholic Church in Ghent, Belgium. They were a bargain I found at Portland Antique many years ago, and they had fit our 90-year-old house. When I'm eating a meal in my 600 square-foot apartment, I sit on a folding wooden chair that can be moved out of the way when it's not needed. Those beautiful antique chairs were not practical and would not fit my new life.

Five moves in two years, and I still have too much stuff. I had a epiphany while surrounded by my stuff in my storage unit: Why was I paying to store stuff for a life I no longer had--and likely would never have again?

Even worse, by having to pay a monthly storage fee, this stuff still owns me. Our stuff should not own us or dictate how we live.

I'm no longer the soccer mom, wife and mother of school-age children cooking family dinners or hosting large holiday meals. I usually eat alone. When I have friends or family over, we eat at the fish table (if it's just two of us) or on the couch or outside in the forested yard.

No, I'm a different woman than the obese soccer mom I was four years ago. I'm a divorced, empty-nester. But don't feel sorry for me. I have a great life. Now I'm an adventurous woman paddling my own canoe. In the past few years, I've started dragon boating, returned to hiking and backpacking, conquered my fear of skiing, tried archery, belly dancing and swing dancing, kayaked many rivers and camped several nights in a teepee. I've found my voice again by playing an African djembe drum around a campfire. I'm dating an amazing Mountain Man who also is ready for fun. I have a dragon tattoo on my right shoulder blade. I'm the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo! I've changed.

Through all of this adventure, I've rediscovered myself. In the process, I've brought my young adult daughter along for the journey and have modeled a strong, confident woman as I've taken her hiking or to an archery range to learn to shoot a bow.

But standing in my storage unit surrounded by my surplus stuff, I resolved to continue my downsizing journey to simplicity. I will get rid of those platters, candles and vases. I don't need all those linens. I still have too much stuff.

Instead, I want to live fully, joyfully each day, unencumbered by too much stuff. Instead of my hands grasping material things I no longer need, my wish is that my hands and heart be open to the delicious possibilities ahead.

In August, I backpacked for the first time in 28 years. The Mountain Man and I backpacked in the Elkhorn Mountains and camped at an alpine lake surrounded by curious mountain goats.

A tiny babushka fishing from the dock

"Babushka" by Irina Gaiduk

Recently while climbing into our dragon boat one warm, summer night, I noticed a teeny-tiny, very old woman fishing from the dock just six feet from our boat.

Her slight frame was tucked into a wheelchair. She was so short that her thin legs dangled like a child's. She was dressed like a grandmother from the "Old Country," as my own grandma would have said. Graying hair peeked out from underneath a hefty headscarf tied under her chin. She wore a dark coat, dress and dark stockings, even though it was a warm evening.

In her time-worn hands, she grasped a fishing pole. Her head bent toward the water, she peered intently into the river where her she'd dropped her line. Waiting. Waiting patiently for a bite.

A man who was probably in his sixties--likely her son--stood next to her, minding his own fishing line.

Jeanie, our dragon boat coach, gave the command to "Shove off" and we began the rhythmic paddling to pull our boat through the Willamette River. An hour later, after paddling hard, we returned to the dock.

And the fishing babushka was still there, grasping her pole, peering into the water and hoping for a bite.

I climbed out of the boat and felt compelled to try to talk with this woman. Wish her luck in her fishing.

"Excuse me," I leaned down toward her.

But she shook her head and murmured some words. Russian maybe? Her son shook his head too. No English. They continued fishing in silence.

I wished I'd been able to speak to her. I wanted to tell her that I hoped I'd be fishing and having adventures when I'm 90. That she inspired me to keep paddling my own canoe.

I stood on the dock a moment to watch her, to remember her face. Then I turned and walked with the other Mighty Women toward home.

The Trials and Tribulations of Online Dating

 

I have an embarrassing confession to make.

Recently while paddling my own canoe, I'd lost my way in the drama of online dating. Earlier today I disabled my account on a popular, free online dating site. It took conversations with my sister, a cousin and a girlfriend for me to realize how online dating was eroding my confidence and wasting my time. I spent far too much time trolling the online waters looking for prospective men when I could have been out doing something fun and experiencing life.

When I first dipped my big toe into the online dating pool, it had been 29 years since I'd been single, or as Bridget Jones would say, a "singleton" out there in the scary dating world. And how that dating world has changed in three decades!

In this all-new world of online dating, I first spent hours writing, editing and tweaking my profile. I'm a writer. That part was fun, but challenging. What words make a person appear attractive, interesting and witty--yet not desperate? Carefully choosing photos to upload to my profile ate up more time.

Then, I wasted more hours than I care to admit answering inane questions that were supposed to help find men who had shared interests and values. Most of the questions did not seem helpful in weeding out men who weren't good matches. And many questions were much too personal. I didn't answer those.

Soon men--dozens and dozens of them--began knocking on my virtual door. I'll admit that at first it was an ego booster to have so many men checking out my profile. But once I weeded out the too young, too old, bisexual, kinky and the worst category, in my opinion, "married but available," the numbers were much fewer.

Although I had specified that I was interested in men within a certain age range, my profile was visited by men spanning a much larger range, from creepy and way too young: "you're almost as young as my son," to creepy and much too old: "you're almost as old as my father!"

Distance factored into the weeding-out process as well. Even if they were as gorgeous as George Clooney (and they weren't), men hundreds of miles away, across the country or on a different continent were eliminated from the ever-shrinking pool.

Men began messaging me. Many were clearly online looking only for sex. Some were downright creepy. Late one night, I was checking who had visited my profile when a man instant messaged me and asked if I wanted company that night. Right-o. Uh-huh. I've never met this man, I don't know what his real name is, and he's hoping I'll give him my address so he can drive right over to my place late at night. Isn't there a slasher movie with that same plot? I told him "no thanks," and he excused his virtual self to go creep out some other woman.

Sometimes I'd work up the courage to email a particularly attractive prospect who had been rated a very good match for me. But many men didn't have the courtesy to reply. I felt "virtually" rejected. One guy at least had the kindness to respond, "I looked at your profile, but I'm just not interested." I appreciated his candor. It was better than being ignored, but I still felt rejected.

I met a handful of guys face to face, always in daylight in a safe, public place, like a coffee shop. I always drove my own car and never got into a car with a man until I'd met him a few times and had the opportunity to Google him and check out his background.

With my first few coffee shop meetups, there was no spark for either of us. We were too polite to say, "Look, it's been nice meeting you, but let's not waste any more time. Best of luck." The first man talked nonstop about his career and his kids, but he didn't ask anything about me. This was my first "date" in 29 years. I was tongue tied and not marketing myself as an Internet dater should. He likely was nervous too. It went the same with the next guy.

One particularly memorable meetup was with a man who was supposed to be 94 percent compatible with me. We had emailed a couple of times, and seemed to share many interests. But when I walked into the coffee shop and saw him, I'm sure my jaw dropped. The photos he had posted were probably 20 years old, and he had gained 50 or 75 pounds or more since those old photos had been taken. He hadn't been honest.

What I found more disturbing was that as we chatted, he seemed to have a negative attitude and difficult relationships with many people. But the last straw was when he pulled out his phone and showed me a photo of himself dressed as a pirate and said he'd like to see me again. (Ladies, he did NOT look like Johnny Depp!) I politely looked at his pirate photo and replied that I was taking online dating very slowly. Then I excused myself and sprinted to my car and made my escape. I wondered if he ever had a second date.

After that I learned to do more research by having phone conversations before we actually met in person. That helped to find if there was common ground. But how do you casually work into the conversation: "One last question: Do you have a pirate costume?"

I eventually did have more than one date with a few nice men. It was fun to have a man to go to a restaurant with, see a movie or a play, and visit farmers markets, museums and more. But after a time, those short-term relationships fizzled out.

Recently, my friend, Henry, and I were comparing online dating war stories.

"I should stop watching chick flicks like 'Under the Tuscan Sun,'" I told him. "I need to realize that I'm not going to move to Italy, be swept off my feet by a handsome stranger and live happily ever after in a Tuscan villa."

With his dry wit, Henry replied, "My love life has been more like the movie 'Titanic'. The last hour--when the ship is sinking!"

Since that conversation, Henry has found a wonderful woman on the same online dating site that I had tried. He's happy. He tells me not to take it so seriously, not to worry so much about it. Just let it happen.

Henry and many other friends have reminded me how hard I've worked to achieve my freedom, to change my life, to start anew. To paddle my own canoe.

Someday, maybe I'll meet a man who is a compatible paddling partner for my adventures. In the meantime, I'll keep paddling my own canoe and moving forward to my next adventure.

Meanwhile, tomorrow morning is my last dragon boat race for the season. Can't wait! Paddles up!

When Good Things Fall Apart so Better Things Can Fall Together

I'm sitting in my favorite neighborhood coffee shop, La Bella Cafe in Uptown Village, where the barista greets me by name and knows my drink of choice: skinny Big Train Chai. It's a lazy Saturday afternoon and I've come here to relax and write. It's special time I anticipate each week.

However, today the regular barista who knows me by name is not working and the shop has run out of my favorite chai. I am not a coffee drinker, which is a rarity here in the rainy Pacific Northwest, home of Starbucks and Seattle's Best. So I ordered a nonfat Mexican hot chocolate instead. And I was pleasantly surprised at how spicy and delicious it was.

On the oversized chalkboard near where I sit, someone has written this apropos quote:

"Sometimes good things fall apart so better things can fall together."

It's certainly true in my life, even down to the most minute circumstances. If the coffee shop hadn't run out of my favorite chai, I wouldn't have tasted the delicious Mexican hot chocolate. I would have missed that experience of trying something new. And I am all about trying new experiences.

If I were to step back and look at the bigger picture, this quote is very appropriate for many areas of my life. I'll bet it is for yours too.

Good thing that fell apart: Being laid off from a job that I had poured my heart and soul into for four-and-a-half years.

Resulting good thing that fell together: Starting a new job at the Columbian newspaper that uses my writing skills, but that only requires 40 hours a week. It's so refreshing to be able to leave work and know that I did my job and now have the evening or even an entire weekend for my own pursuits. How refreshing!

Good thing that fell apart: When I lost my job, I had to sell my charming 90-year-old house before it became a short sale.

Resulting good thing that fell together: Becoming a renter for the first time in a long time freed up my time, money and energy that I was expending to maintain a large, vintage house and a yard.

Good thing that fell apart: When I sold my house, I had to downsize very quickly from a three-story house to a one-bedroom apartment.

Resulting good thing that fell together: Before I moved, I had to examine countless boxes of stuff that we had hidden away in the attic--and I got rid of about half of what I owned. That was extremely freeing.

Good thing that fell apart: When I had to downsize and move quickly, even though I was under tremendous stress, I was too busy to stress eat and I was moving my body double time to clear out the house.

Resulting good thing that fell together: My health! As I was going through boxes, I found my workbook about mindful eating and I started examining at my relationship with food with new eyes. Without even trying, I lost 10 pounds in December. That was such an encouragement to me that I joined our community gym and started working out regularly. I have lost a total of 22 pounds and several inches so far. I'm more than a third of the way to my goal in just three months!

I even joined a dragon boat team, the Mighty Women, and I'm anticipating my first dragon boat race this spring. With all the paddling and other exercising, I am changing my body to a much stronger, healthier and smaller body. That's definitely a better thing!

Many good things fell apart in the last two years of my life, but they have been replaced by better things. I'm happier than I have been in a long time. I am living. I am having adventures. I am paddling my own canoe--and having the time of my life.

The next time something good falls apart in your own life, don't despair. Be on the lookout for a better thing to fall together.