Control your clutter--don't let it control you

Control your clutter before it overruns your life.

 

Is your life overrun with too much stuff? Are you overwhelmed with trying to unburden yourself?

Do you hold onto stuff with emotional ties? Clothes that are three sizes too small--or too big? Gifts you've never used but might someday?

Do you have bulging closets? Is your garage so stuffed with junk that you can't park a car in there?

Do you own so much stuff that you also pay rent on a storage unit? If so, you're not alone. Did you know that 8.96 percent of all American households currently rent a self storage unit? That's a whopping 10.85 million of the 113.3 million U.S. households in 2012, according to the Self Storage Association.

For six months, I've been plagued with the overwhelming task of downsizing my storage unit from a 10 x 20 unit to a 10 x 10 unit. Slowly but surely, I've been getting rid of stuff I no longer needed.

Every month when I paid my storage bill, I felt guilty. I felt I was wasting money renting a storage unit larger than I needed. But could I really squeeze it down to 10 x 10 feet?

Today, thanks to my friend and neighbor Bruce who pitched in to help me, we did just that. The impetus behind me finally doing this task is that my storage rent is increasing next month. After just a little more than two hours of work, the task was completed.

Most of the remaining stuff is stored in neatly stacked plastic storage bins with lids. I already had all these storage bins, but today I consolidated my stuff so it takes up less space.

As I swept the concrete floor of the empty storage unit, I looked at the cavernous space and hoped I'd never need to store such an enormous amount of stuff again.

We took a load of empty boxes to a nearby U-Haul storefront. Someone who is moving can use those boxes. I don't intend to move anytime soon. Last year, I moved three times in three months. In the past two years, I'd moved five times.

I have a few things to donate, including two throw pillows to a couch I donated three months ago. In December 2011 when I was laid off and had to sell my three story, 2,400-square-foot house, I started a practice of keeping a cardboard "donate" box near the front door or even in the car. It makes it easier to toss in things I no longer need and drop them off to my favorite thrift shop before I talk myself into keeping them.

Now everything I own fits into my 600-square foot apartment or my 10 x 10 storage unit. Even so, I still have too much stuff and will continue to lighten my load.

If I were still carrying the weight of so much stuff I no longer need, would I have found space in my life to reach out and become a new woman unafraid to paddle a dragon boat with the Mighty Women, beat an African drum, swing dance in a crowded pub, belly dance in front of a wall of mirrors and so many other adventures?

Before I pulled down the door on the smaller storage unit, I smiled. That bear of a task is done and no longer can haunt my dreams. Thanks, Bruce!

Simple Gifts

A Shaker song

'Tis the gift to be simple,

'Tis the gift to be free,

'Tis the gift to come down where you ought to be,

And when we find ourselves in the place just right,

It will be in the valley of love and delight.

When true simplicity is gained,

To bow and to bend we shan't be ashamed.

To turn, turn will be our delight,

'Til by turning, turning we come round right.

 .

I think I'll move to Australia

Did you ever read that children's book, "Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible No Good, Very Bad Day" by Judith Viorst?

It's about a little boy who has one of those days that really blows. By the end of  his horrible day, when he's forced to wear his railroad train pajamas because his favorite jammies are in the wash, Alexander loses it and wants to move to Australia.

I'm ready for Australia too.

Lately, I've had a string of Alexander days. It's really an accumulation of challenges--from small ripples to crushing tsunami waves--threatening to overturn my canoe and to steal my joy. I'm paddling through these challenging waves, but it's hard to keep paddling when your arms ache.

Yesterday I felt exhausted from paddling so hard without making any progress. I wondered when I'd reach a calmer spot in the river so I can catch my breath.

I was lamenting the trials and tribulations buffeting my boat when I popped into a grocery store and had a reality check. In an "aha" moment, my eyes were averted from my own boat and problems.

I am only five-foot-two and often have to climb up grocery store shelves to reach my cereal or other out-of-reach item. Or sometimes I seek out a tall person to retrieve my cereal from the top shelf. Never in my life have I been someone else's tall person.

As I reached for something high above my head, a voice below me asked, "Would you grab one for me?"

I turned to see a tiny woman with many, many more challenges than I have. Her legs had not fully developed. She was sitting on a motorized platform scooter.

"Sure," I said, grabbing another. "Why do they put things up here so we short women can't reach them?"

"Beats me," she laughed.

At that moment, I realized that although my challenges are daunting, they aren't as enormous as I had imagined.

I'll paddle through them, one stroke at a time.

The passing of Val Ogden, a woman who paddled her own canoe

Yesterday afternoon, our community lost Val Ogden, a selfless leader, an advocate for children, women, the homeless, blind students, people coping with mental health issues. Serving six terms in the House of Representatives, she rolled up her sleeves and went to work for all of us. She made a difference right to the end, at age 90.

For me, Val was the epitome of a woman paddling her own canoe. She inspired me to be strong through difficult, life-changing challenges. But I never told her how she inspired me. And now it's too late to tell her.

Along Vancouver's Columbia River waterfront trail is the Val and Dan Ogden bench, donated by the Ogdens. It's fitting that the bench looks over the bronze sculpture of Ilchee, the Chinook woman known for paddling her own canoe.

I didn't want Val to think I was some nutty stalker. But here's what I wanted to tell Val:

Thanks to you and Dan for providing that bench near Ilchee. I've spent hours there, thinking, searching for strength and answers, scribbling in my journal, looking for ways to reach my potential. Thank you for inspiring me to be strong to get through the hard times, to dig deep, to make a difference, to find joy.

Yesterday I called friends Holly Chamberlain and Charlie Mitchell, told them the news of Val's passing and asked if they'd walk along the Columbia River with me to visit Val and Dan's bench. Holly cut yellow and red tulips from her garden and set them at the plaque below the Ogden's bench.

We talked about the difference Val made. Then we stood in front of Ilchee and watched a glorious sunset.

Conquering old fears: Leaving the bunny hill behind

Last weekend, I experienced the exhilaration of conquering a three-decade fear
when I left the bunny hill behind, rode the chair lift and skied down a big hill.
Yes, I fell. Multiple times. But I got up again and kept going.

Has a terrifying experience while trying something new paralyzed you from getting "back on the horse?"

At age 19, I had a frightening first experience on a ski slope that kept me from alpine skiing for 34 years. Apparently, I'm not the first woman who has been dragged up a ski lift by a well-meaning boyfriend without first having a lesson on the basics. I didn't know how to turn, slow down or stop.

However, I did know how to scream at a decibel level that registered in the next county. After nearly tumbling off the ski lift, I fell all the way down the mountain, screaming in terror. My sister, Judy, was working outside in the ski resort's restaurant that day and recognized my scream echoing from the top of the mountain all the way down to the lodge.

That horrific experience kept me from the slopes for 34 years.

Last winter, Kirby, a certified ski instructor and my significant other, taught me to snowplow, turn, stop, control my speed. On the itty-bitty hill, he skied backward in front of me, coaxing me down the hill. On the way back up, I rode the magic carpet lift with the other beginners, all younger than me by decades.

Next, I rode up the handle tow and snowplowed slowly down the bunny hill. Again, Kirby skied backward in front of me, encouraging me all the way down. After several runs, he asked if I was ready for the chair lift, but I wasn't. That fear of falling still gripped me. I skied the bunny hill all weekend.

This ski season, I was determined to conquer my fear. Kirby told me people don't fall off the chair lift. But I'm accomplished at falling. If anyone could fall off the chair lift, it would be me.

After I made two successful runs down the bunny hill, Kirby asked if I was ready for the chair lift. I gulped, but nodded. I knew I had to face my fear. As we skied toward the chair lift, I boosted my confidence with positive self-talk: "You are a Mighty Woman dragon boat paddler. You've done zip lining, stand up paddle board and belly dancing. You can do this."

Kirby coached me on how to hold my poles in one hand, grab the chair lift with the other hand and sit down. I had a klutzy nanosecond and accidentally dropped one of my poles. But the snowboarder behind us picked up my pole and took it to the top of the lift for me.

As we approached the point to get off the chair lift, Kirby calmly coached me again: "Stand up, go into a snowplow and ski to the right."

Although my heart was beating wildly, I did it--and I didn't fall!

Kirby took me down the easiest run, coaching me down the mountain. For the most part, I did OK, snowplowing extremely slowly in a wide zig-zag. But when skiers and snowboarders began zipping around me, I panicked, lost my nerve and fell. Multiple times. I became an expert at getting up.

But then I reminded myself: "You've got this! You're the girl with the dragon tattoo! You can do this."

That positive self-talk--and knowing how to control my skis--made all the difference. So did Kirby's calm encouragement. On the second day, I even did some parallel turns.

Then my legs got tired and I started falling again. On my last run of the weekend, we went down a hill that ended with a fast, straight stretch all the way down to the lodge.

In reality, I wasn't skiing that fast, but to me, it seemed I was zooming down the mountain. The best part was that I felt in complete control--and I didn't scream or fall. But I'm sure I smiled.

Next year, I'm going to parallel ski all the way down the mountain.

Dragon boat paddling: What to wear

With the season's first dragon boat races in the Pacific Northwest coming up in April, dragon boat teams are recruiting new paddlers now. One of the first questions newbies ask is: "What do I wear to paddle a dragon boat?"

First of all, I always wear my paddling dragon tattoo! It empowers me to move forward with confidence.

After paddling for two years in all kinds of weather--from 34 degrees to pounding rain to downright hot days--I have a good idea of what clothing works for me. Now that it's nearly spring and temperatures are well above freezing, it's time to shed our winter Gator Gloves and winter hats.

Every paddler has her own clothing preferences, body temperature and budget. You'll find what works for you through trial and error. You don't have to spend a fortune to outfit yourself for dragon boating, but if you insist on buying everything new and not on sale, you could.

I'm lucky to live in the Portland metro area with plenty of options for purchasing clothing. Almost every bit of my paddling clothing I've bought used, mostly at various Goodwill stores. The only things I insist on buying new is footwear and gloves. I wash all my thrift shop purchases before wearing them.

Here's what I wore this morning to paddle on a cloudy day with temperature around 50 degrees:

* Sports bra: quick dry and breathable. My favorite is a Nike Dri-fit with a comfy racing back. It covers my torso almost to my naval. It dries quickly, and that's crucial on race days when you'll wear your paddling clothes all day. On hot summer days, you'll want a regular sports bra.

* Paddling shirt: again,quick dry, moisture wicking and breathable. I prefer short sleeves because long sleeves get wet and make me uncomfortable. But some women prefer long sleeves.

* Paddling pants: quick dry and breathable. Regular yoga pants won't work because when you get them wet--and you WILL get your pants wet--they don't dry out, and then it feels as if you're wearing a wet diaper. I like the capris length. Our team wears black on the bottom, and so do many other teams. I do have a pair of full-length black pants to wear when it's a bit cold, but beginning in spring, I wear capris for practice and on race day. This race season I hope to buy these cool capris emblazoned with a dragon. They're available online via Double Fifth Dragon Boating.

* Paddling skort: On warm days, some women prefer paddling skorts, short skirts with built-in shorts underneath. I'm not ready to rock this look, but here's a picture of one from Double Fifth Dragon Boating. Some women also wear quick-dry shorts.

* Rain pants: Dragon boating is a water sport, and you will get wet. Sometimes you'll get a tiny bit wet; other days, you'll be soaked. You'll need rain gear for the top and bottom. My rain gear is from Goodwill. They don't match, but they keep me dry. This morning, when it was a little drizzly, I wore my capris paddling pants and on top of that, I wore my rain pants, which are Columbia Sportswear Omnitech pants with a drawstring waist (a must so you can cinch them tighter as you begin losing weight from the hard work of paddling a dragon boat!). Look for rain pants with zippered pockets. I paid only $9.95 for mine at Goodwill.

 

* Lightweight, quick drying, moisture-wicking, water repellant rain jacket: You'll be paddling in the rain and will need a good rain coat that falls below your waist and is comfortable to wear paddling. I found mine at Goodwill and paid $9.95. It has a hood with a drawstring I can cinch tight if I'm paddling in a deluge. The wrists have Velco around them so I can tighten and loosen it. The coat also has both interior and exterior zippered pockets. You don't want a fussy coat that's hard to remove because you might have to shed it quickly and fling it into the bottom of the boat, or sit on it during a water break. This morning, I was overheated and at our first water break, I pulled off my PFD, removed my raincoat, put my PFD back on, zipped it up, and gulped some water before our coach gave us the "paddles up" warning that our short break was over.

* Footwear: Most of the year I wear my Keen sandals when I paddle. They protect my toes, have sturdy tread, let water run through when I step into a boat with water at the bottom, and they let me feet breathe on hot days. During the cold, wet months of winter paddling, I usually wear my tall, rubber rain boots from Costco. I've seen them at Target too. However, some coaches don't want their paddlers wearing boots. If the boat fills with water and you have to swim, it would be difficult to swim wearing rubber boots that come almost up to your knees. When I first started paddling, I wore an old pair of rafting sandals, but they left my toes exposed. Some paddlers wear old sneakers. I tried that, but your feet always get wet, and wearing wet sneakers made my feet cold. But paddlers wear all kinds of footwear, and if you visit an outdoor store with a decent shoe department, you'll find many styles of river shoes.

* PFD (personal flotation device, or life jacket): Yes, you'll need one especially for paddling, and if it needs to be snug, hug your body, not ride up, but be comfy so you have full range of motion. You'll want one with zippered pockets. I bought mine used right off my coach's back! Teams usually have matching PFDs used only for race day, but paddlers need their own PFDs for practice. Portland DragonSports owns several one-size-fits-all PFDs down at the dock, but if you're a smaller person, you'll find it frustrating. And these often are damp. This photo is my dream PFD, an MTI Moxi. I don't own this, but hope to someday.

* Water bottle: You'll want a water bottle. During practice, we take our water bottles onto the boat, but on race day, we don't. Sometimes I reuse a plastic bottle from water I've purchased. I keep filling it up. You can spend more money and get better water bottles. Be warned that I've lost several water bottles that have bounced out of the boat.

* Dry sack to keep your valuables dry and safe. My first year of paddling, I didn't have a dry sack, and it was tough keeping my stuff dry on the boat, but my second year, I splurged and spent about $30 at REI for what's essentially a clear, plastic dry sack for my cell phone. It hangs around my neck by a sturdy cord. I put it underneath my PFD so it's not in the way. You can buy dry sacks of many sizes. When I kayak for the day, a larger dry sack can be tucked at my feet.

 

Paddling gloves: Some coaches frown upon their paddlers wearing gloves. I find it helps me have a firmer grip on my paddle. In the winter, I wear my heavy Glacier Gloves. The rest of the year, I wear lightweight half-finger Neoprene paddling gloves. I wash them often. After paddling, I hang my gloves immediately so they dry out.

* Waterproof wallet: Chum makes all manner of wallets for paddling. My everyday wallet has a removable inner wallet I pull out for paddling and stash in my PFD zippered pocket. It holds my driver's license, my debit card, my auto insurance card and health insurance card. It also opens in the center so I can tuck a little cash into it in case my team goes out for coffee or Second Breakfast after our Saturday morning paddle.

* Hat: I usually can't stand to wear a hat when I'm paddling because it gets in the way. However, when it's raining really hard, I wear my Australian outback Gore-Tex waterproof rain hat which has a chin strap so I can cinch it tighter and not lose it in the water.

 

Where to find paddling clothing: Goodwill and other thrift shops, but also REI and in Portland, the Next Adventure paddling store in Southeast. Tell them you're on a dragon boat team and you get a discount. A variety of websites offer online shopping for paddling gear. One of the best is DoubleFifth Dragon Boating.

Finding the rhythm—and courage—to beat my drum

My friend Henry invited friends to celebrate his 50^th birthday by sharing a story in a format similar to The Moth. Each storyteller took a turn at the front of the room telling a story with the theme of "lost and found." Wearing my little black dress, my cowgirl boots, and my elk antler canoe paddle necklace, I beat a rhythm on my African djembe drum while I shared my story:

As a kid, I marched to the beat of a different drummer. But it was the 1960s. A girl could be a teacher, nurse, secretary, or if she were really adventurous, a flight attendant. I dreamed of adventure: traveling to Africa, flying a plane, and being a girl drummer. I created drums from household objects: Mom’s pots and pans, empty boxes, the living room radiator.

When we were six, my cousin, Dave and I formed a band, Sue and her Swingers. We didn’t have a clue what a swinger was, but we liked the alliteration. My drumsticks were Lincoln Logs, and my drum was an empty oatmeal box. But Dave, who was nicknamed “Hippy Dave” and wore cool, striped bell bottoms, played a real guitar that his mom gave him. Our repertoire consisted of “Lay Down Your Head, Tom Dooley” and “Down the Valley." We played living room gigs for our parents. Cool, huh?

I kept drumming, but still didn't have a real drum.

For my tenth birthday, for some inexplicable reason, I was sure my parents were giving me a drum set and a real chimpanzee. Imagine my disappointment when I opened my gifts and found neither chimpanzee nor drum set, but instead a tall, metal high chair for dolls. What the heck? It didn’t take me long to discover the doll high chair made a great drum! It was tall enough that I could stand up to play my drum solos! I played a lot of gigs on that doll high chair.

By sixth grade, kids could take band class and learn to play an instrument. My hands shook with excitement that first time I held real drumsticks and played a snare drum. Even the names of the drum rudiments were thrilling: flam, paradiddle, triple ratamacue.

Although my family couldn't afford to buy a new drum, the band teacher let students rent old marching band snare drums for $1 a month. Covering the large drum in a plastic garbage bag, I lugged the drum home on my bike every day after school so I could practice drumming.

That Christmas, Mom surprised me with a gently used silver snare drum. It was a beaut! I don’t recall where Mom found it or how she afforded it, but it remains one of the best gifts I’ve ever received.

I was a drummer in the school band from sixth grade through high school. In our small school, being in the band meant playing in concert band, marching band in parades and pep band at all the football and basketball games. By then, drummer Karen Carpenter was a role model, and I was joined by two other girl drummers. I loved being a drummer! When a popular kid at school referred to me as "the little drummer girl," I beamed. 

But when I moved away to attend college, my drum gathered dust. Mom asked if she could sell it in her garage sell, and I agreed. When would I play a drum as an adult woman?

Shortly after college graduation, I got married and was busy raising a family. I loved being a mom and a wife. But as my kids grew into older teens and young adulthood and I had more breathing room, I realized that I’d lost myself. Although I found great joy in spending time with my kids, the adventurous girl I'd once been had been replaced by a shell of a person. I felt completely alone in my marriage. To cover up my grief and emptiness, I ate chocolate--lots of it--ballooning to almost twice my high school weight.

After counseling and mediation sessions, my husband and I eventually divorced.

More than thirty years had passed since I'd played a drum. Now 50 years old, did I remember how to play my own rhythm? Did my heart still have the capacity for joyful song? I didn't know the answers to these questions, but I was ready to find out.

I joined a women's dragon boat team, the Mighty Women. Paddling three times a week was therapeutic for my soul, and combined with mindful eating and other exercise, helped me trim almost 50 pounds from my 5-foot-2 frame.

It was while paddling on the water that I began breathing again. And smiling. My success in dragon boating spurred me to try other adventures: zip lining, kayaking, stand up paddleboard, snow shoeing, belly dancing.

With each new experience, my courage increased.

The next step was a doozy. Dipping my big toe into the online dating pool, the first few dates were duds. I did meet a couple of kind men who had some shared interests, and it was fun going to dinner or a movie, and nice having someone to talk with. But nothing really clicked.

Then I met a Mountain Man, a fellow adventurous spirit who is finding his way back to happiness and joy. Even more incredible, he was a drummer in high school too. He'd recently bought an African djembe drum at Rhythm Traders in Portland. We went to Rhythm Traders together, losing ourselves in more drums and percussion instruments than I'd ever seen, tapping out rhythms, laughing and finding joy in the moment. I was the only woman there. The only girl drummer. During our second trip to Rhythm Traders, I bought my own African djembe drum. It's a beaut!

Together, the Mountain Man and I have paddled skin-on-frame kayaks, camped in his tipi, hiked, explored museums. He's taught me western swing dancing, archery and alpine skiing. I'm editing his book and helping him publish and market it.

We've played music together under the summer stars and in the falling snow. Who knew life in my fifties could be so rich?

I've come a long way from the empty shell I was. Each morning, I step forward expectantly, anticipating whatever adventures might lie ahead. And sometimes, I strap on my drum, my hands tapping out a rhythm while my heart sings.

Kirby and I playing our African djembe drums in the garden.

 

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.