I've been clearing the things out of my house. I need some space. Some empty space so that I can breathe while looking at a blank wall. I always have thought of myself as a maximalist but as it turns out, while I am surely as the sky seems blue an adorer of beautiful things, I feel hemmed in. I believe hemmed in by the stuff, the beautiful piles of stuff I have accumulated. The stuff I go hunting for when i need a break from my house, the stuff I run my hands over and read the labels with joy and feel excited to have discovered the existence of. The knicknacks and extras, all the bits I don't particularly like anymore but also many many that I dearly adore.
I look at these vases and coverlets, dresses and shoes, necklaces and dishes, artwork and these things I thought I needed in order to make my life beautiful. And I slowly put them into boxes and bags and the trunk of my car and they are carried off to donation. And slowly I see that all that is left are the best things, the ones that sing my tune and get pulled out day after day after day, surprising me with their usefulness and common beauty. I breathe easier when there is space around and between my things. Openings for the light and the poetry of them to interact. One playing off the next. The antique desk speaks to the goose print and the moon clock and the armoire hugs the whales and lotions. The hoops curl around the clay bird and the third ring and I reach for them each morning.
It's all quite particular. It's quite me. I'm quite particular. But I do change, oh so much I change. And the boats that once pulled a peaceful breeze through my mind now are simply stuck on the wall. So it's time they too go. The purse I used to carry every day has stiffened in the closet and I feel it's sadness to be so disused. Things loved once and now put up are merely waiting for another chance to breathe, just as I am. So here I am, longing to breathe.