Had my storage unit been burgled? Would that be devastating--or a blessing?

I was working 45 minutes from home when I received a voicemail from the manager of my storage unit asking me to call her.

"This can't be good," I thought..

She had bad news: "During our inspection, we found your lock wasn't on properly. The door wasn't really locked."

"Did you open the door and see if my storage unit is empty?" I asked.

"No. We don't do that. You need to come as soon as possible and check your unit to see if anything is missing."

Mostly, my storage unit held remnants of my old life--the one where I was a married soccer mom raising two kids, hosting holiday meals, and maintaining a big house. In the past five years, I've sifted through the shards of my previous life and have let go of lots of stuff. But I still owned more stuff than can fit into my 600-square-foot apartment, so I paid for storage.

On my drive toward my storage unit, I considered its contents:

• Hostessing supplies I'll likely never need again: platters, candles and candlesticks, and tablecloths for a family-size table I no longer own. 
• Boxes of Christmas decorations. Due to space limitations, I have an artificial tabletop tree and use a small portion of my ornaments.
• Yard tools: I may never have a yard again. 
• Kitchenware that doesn't fit into my compact kitchen. 
• Camping gear: I still use some of this stuff.
• My son's Star Wars action figures. He says he doesn't want them, but I can't let them go. Am I holding onto his childhood?

• My Luggable Loo--a porta-potty I bought when I lived for three months without a bathroom, heat, or running water. I'll keep her. She could be useful for car camping at primitive sites when my only option is squatting behind a sagebrush on a dark night while worrying that a rattlesnake might bite me in the rear.

• The only furniture left in my storage unit: Two Shaker chairs and a 1930s floor lamp.
• My wedding dress, handmade by my sister, Becky and my friend, Reenie in 1983. I am divorced. My daughter doesn't want the dress. Why have I kept it?
• Four area rugs that once graced oak floors in our circa-1921 house. I likely won't live in a big house with wood floors again.
• Hundreds of family photos--loose photos, in albums, and in frames. I no longer have space to display many photos. When I've sorted through these photos from my old life, I cry. It's painful to face the failure of my marriage. I do plan to make photo albums for my kids and even my ex-husband, but I've avoided it. 
• The rest of my storage unit is what my Swedish Grandma Lydia would call "stuff and junk."

At first, when I had to quickly empty my house, I gave away truckloads of belongings.When I moved, I rented an enormous 20 x 10 storage unit. 

But now, 4 1/2 years later, there's not much stuff left. I rent a 10 x 10 storage unit that's about two-thirds full. I was planning to get rid of more stuff and get a smaller storage unit last fall, but then I broke both wrists in an ATV accident--and I couldn't hold a hairbrush or zip my pants, let alone move boxes. My accident sidelined my plans to continue winnowing my stuff down to the essential.

Recently, my storage rental had increased. I calculate I've spent about $5,500 on storage rental since my divorce. Holy cow! What a waste of money! I'm living on an income that's far less than what I made at my previous job. I pick up pennies I find on the street, yet I've been throwing away money on storage. 

By now, I was pulling into the storage facility. Had my unit been burglarized? What if all my stuff had been stolen? What if when I lift the door and look inside, I find it empty? Would that be a tragedy--or a blessing?

Why was I holding onto stuff for a life I no longer lived? At that moment, I realized what was really essential: the photos of my kids growing up.

A few minutes later, I unlocked the padlock, lifted the door, and held my breath. I let out a sigh.

The good news: No thief had stolen my stuff. I still had all those photos of my kids. That's the essential nugget I'd keep.

The bad news: I still had to get rid of lots of stuff.

After facing the possibility of losing everything, I realized most of it was chaff I could release to the wind. For the first time, I felt all this stuff no longer owned me. Time to lighten the load in my canoe and paddle forward to the next adventure.

Paddles up!

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.