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.

The trials and tribulations of used car shopping

My first car: a 1961 American Rambler, which I drove when it was 16 years old.
It was the antithesis of the muscle cars--Mustangs, Chargers and Cougars
popular when I drove this car in high school in 1976-78.

I'm about to use three words guaranteed to make your head ache, your stomach churn and your palms sweat. Ready?

Used car shopping.

Ick! Is there any task less appealing?

Who looks forward to wading knee deep through the doo-doo of deceitful used car ads online? Who relishes the thought of dealing with commissioned sales people who descend hungrily upon you--teeth bared and grinning--like the great white shark in "Jaws?"

My daughter's 1993 Toyota Camry finally bit the dust. Thanks to a loan from her aunt, my daughter has a modest budget. However, we're not finding much in that price range.

But after doing research online and at the library, we girded our loins for battle and drove to a used car lot. The salesman was upon us before I turned off my car's engine. I brought a notebook and took copious notes. That made the salesman nervous.

On the entire lot, only one car fit our budget and other requirements: a shiny red Ford Focus. It had 86,000 miles, which was a little on the high side for my comfort level. My daughter was excited about the car, but I insisted we take it to my mechanic, Don Orange of Hosely Eco Auto. We dropped the car off at his shop for a thorough pre-purchase inspection while we walked to Uptown Village for lunch.

When we returned from lunch, Don greeted us with: "Don't buy this car. This is not a safe car. It hasn't been taken care of. You can do much better."

Then he gave us a three-page print out listing the car's issues and needed repairs.

My daughter and I were disappointed the car wasn't going to work out. We talked about being relieved to have not made a mistake in buying an unsafe car that needed multiple repairs and would have cost much more money in the long run.

My daughter summed it up like this: "They polished a turd."

We've been car shopping for a couple of weeks now, and after some other dead ends, are no closer to having found a car. However, we're much more skeptical of pretty, shiny cars and the sales people who push unsafe vehicles to unsuspecting buyers. Shame on them!

So this week it's more used car shopping for us. We're skeptical. We're cynical. We're running Carfax reports. We're checking the Kelley Blue Book values. We're kicking the tires. And we're relying on my mechanic to weed out the polished turds.

Meanwhile, we're looking for a reliable, safe sedan with a clean title, low miles and one or two owners--for under $5,000. Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

There and back again: From bliss to pain, then healing

Have you ever felt the elation of absolute bliss--only to plummet to the depths of pain and uncertainty? 

Last September, I experienced a magical day at the Great Circle Music Festival near La Grande, Oregon. I spent the day with my honey listening to live music, dancing, hanging out with friends and basking in Eastern Oregon sunshine. What's not to love about a day so glorious?

Toward the end of the night, music filled the air and the space in front of the stage undulated with dancing bodies. A generous woman had brought an armload of hula hoops and encouraged people to  join her in hooping to the music. I grabbed a hoop and joined my friend, Heather, and her first-grade daughter, Ryleigh.

As we moved our hips to keep our hula hoops rotating, Ryleigh told me something so affirming that I count it as one of my favorite moments ever:

"I want to be like you! You're beautiful and you can do so many things."

Ryleigh's statement made me glow. I wanted to stop right there and give her a big hug.

Only two years before, I had been a miserable mess. Newly divorced and stressed out by a job that was sucking the life out of me, my obese body and my sad countenance proclaimed my unhappiness to the world.

But I'd banished that unhappy woman.

Now as I hula-hooped with Ryleigh, I was a new woman: a dragon boating, swing dancing, belly dancing, kayaking, zip lining, djembe drum playing, hula hooping woman brimming with joy. At that moment, I felt beautiful. Strong. Blissful.

The bliss was short lived.

Two weeks later, I slipped on the porch steps slick with rain. I felt my feet fly from underneath me and thought: "This is going to hurt." My head, neck and back slammed against the steps. I am a tough woman, but I cried. The pain was excruciating.

I had a concussion and a pounding headache. My neck and shoulders were so sore I couldn't turn my head. My back and my entire left side ached. My doctor scheduled physical therapy and prescribed muscle relaxers and extra-strength ibuprofen. She also told me I'd need to take a break from dragon boating and to take it easy. Rest.

One physical therapy session brought no relief, but caused financial stress because my co-pay was so high. I couldn’t afford any more physical therapy, but I did the basic exercises at home. After working all day, I came home, took muscle relaxers and collapsed into bed. So it went for weeks.

I tried some gentle exercise and lifted teeny, tiny weights. It was too soon. The pain worsened. I tried hula hooping with my weighted hoop, an exercise that had brought such joy previously. Now it caused pain. I missed paddling a dragon boat with the Mighty Women. I longed to feel active and powerful again.

Instead, I felt weak and powerless. Was this pain and inactivity my new normal? I'd worked so hard to transform my life and my body at midlife. Would one tiny moment of slipping on the steps change my life forever? I shuddered at that thought.

My pain wasn't debilitating. It was nothing compared to what my friend, Ruth, went through when a mysterious affliction became life threatening and doctors amputated her leg, yet she still hikes. My friend, Kaitlin, has been blind since she was hit by a car at age seven, but she paddles on my dragon boat team. In comparison, what I was dealing with was insignificant. But it had diminished my joy quotient several notches.

Thankfully, my employer's health insurance offered a self-referral benefit of massage and acupuncture at an affordable rate. I'd never had a massage or acupuncture, but I was so tired of hurting that I was willing to try anything that might bring relief and help me get my life back. What a difference the massages made! Who knew that sticking needles in a person's body would be even more relaxing than a massage?

Slowly, as the weeks and then months passed, I began to heal. I've been walking a couple of miles on the trail near my house, and last weekend, after a foot of snow blanketed the ground, I skied through the woods. I wouldn’t qualify for the Olympics at that pace, but I felt strong. Better yet, I didn't have any pain.

This morning, six months after my fall, I wistfully looked at my weighted hula hoop again. Feeling hopeful, I grabbed my hoop and iPod and stepped outside to the garden facing the woods.

After the first song I was winded, but I kept going. As I hooped in rhythm to the music, two Canadian geese honked and flew overhead. I felt in the groove. Elated. Even blissful.

I thought of Ryleigh's words to me six months earlier. And I smiled.

 

 

 

Beating a drum and howling at the full moon

Have you ever missed an amazing experience because you stopped to consider what other people might think? How often do we stop ourselves from enjoying the moment by imagining the negative things people might think or say?

Saturday night at a backyard barbecue I almost missed a fun opportunity because I didn't know many people gathered in my friend Henry's backyard. Many people had already drifted away. Perhaps I should too.

I almost left before the wild rumpus started. That would have been a shame.

We'd gathered to send Henry's daughter, Lena, a graduate student, off to an Alaskan adventure, a summer job helping tourists backpack into wild country. It's a fitting job for Lena, who has backpacked as far away as the Himalayas in Nepal and as long as the 2,663-mile Pacific Crest Trail. You can read my story about Lena's PCT adventure here.

Instead of yielding to my inner voice that was telling me it was time to go home, I had stayed longer. I'd seen the musician neighbor's djembe drum and asked him if I might play it when he played his clarinet. He smiled and encouraged me to join him. I've been playing drums since sixth grade band. I still get a kick from playing any kind of drum.

When the musician picked up his clarinet and began playing sweet notes under the night sky, I grabbed the djembe, listened  to his clarinet and started pounding out a rhythm. Soon others joined us around the fire pit playing a tambourine, mandolin, ukelele. Lena picked up her violin and joined in. Henry turned an enormous plastic bucket upside down and transformed it into a drum.

I found myself sitting around a fire pit with old friends and new acquaintances while beating an African djembe drum during an impromptu jam session. Possibilities were palpable under the full moon.

Our moonlit jam session reminded me of one of my favorite children's books, "Where the Wild Things Are" by Maurice Sendak. If you aren't familiar with Sendak's 1963 classic, Max, the wild boy who has been sent to bed without any supper, sails away to the land of wild things, tames them and becomes king of all the wild things.

Then Max commands his subjects: "Let the wild rumpus start!" and that's when Max and the wild things really let loose. They dance in the moonlight, dangle from trees and frolic in the forest. Now, we weren't dangling from trees in Henry's backyard on Saturday night, but we did play instruments with abandon.

If I'd listened to my voice of reason, I would have left earlier and missed that experience. That wild rumpus.

As I played the djembe under a full moon in Henry's backyard, I felt like a wild thing, alive to possibilities.

The next time you have the opportunity to beat a djembe drum or do something out of the ordinary, don't stop to think about what others will say. Instead, do it. Beat your drum. Life's too short not to play an African drum around a firepit and under a moonlit sky.

Let the wild rumpus start!