I suspect that many of us, as we go about our lives, are oblivious to the impacts we have on other people simply by being ourselves. A stray comment, a random compliment, a kind word of encouragement, all of these might alter the course of someone's day, week or even life. And yet if we try too hard to have an impact on others, by preaching, recommending, urging, insisting, we might actually push people away, unintentionally creating distance or damage. The examples we set can be more powerful than our desire to make waves and generate certain results.
I learned today that a woman who had inspired me by her example was recently murdered in New York City. I met S T Woolf when we lived in Somerville, MA and we were both active in our local arts community. She was in her mid-40s at the time and was just finding her wings as a sculptor and artist. Shortly thereafter she boldly decided to leave Massachusetts, her home for many years, and move to New York City to pursue her artwork full time in a place where she might gain more exposure. As I learned through her occasional e-mails, she quickly made friends and got involved in local arts groups; her work was getting seen and she seemed to be thriving in her new home. Observing her successful mid-life relocation gave me the courage to pack up and move to greener pastures which, for me, was the mountains.
Although I did not know her well, she still had a large influence on me. In addition to leaving behind her art, she left me with the awareness of how each of us, even if we are but tiny pebbles in this vast universe, can potentially create large ripples just by being who we are.
May S T Woolf rest in peace.
Showing posts with label Moving. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Moving. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Introducing another Blog
New situations demand new blogs, so I've created a blog in which to reflect upon certain aspects of my experiences in Colorado. Please visit Adventures with Altitude to read about cultural and climactic differences and the occasional quirky observation about life at 5,280 feet.
For a change of pace, on this new blog the titles of posts begin with a variety of letters, not just "I", and often contain more than just a word or two. Do check it out I will be keeping this blog, too, and cross referencing posts when it makes sense to do so.
Thanks for reading, and please don't be shy about leaving comments on either blog.
For a change of pace, on this new blog the titles of posts begin with a variety of letters, not just "I", and often contain more than just a word or two. Do check it out I will be keeping this blog, too, and cross referencing posts when it makes sense to do so.
Thanks for reading, and please don't be shy about leaving comments on either blog.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Intact, Incense
Yesterday morning my relocube, a large metal storage unit containing most of my earthly possessions, was delivered to my parking spot near the apartment building I now live in. The driver, a man with pale skin, a white beard, twinkly eyes and a laid back manner, was the same person who had brought my studio relocube a few weeks earlier. Seeing him again was like seeing an old friend. As had happened previously, not only did he spend several minutes with me discussing the optimum positioning of my cube for easiest unloading, he also lingered for some small talk after he had used his forklift to deposit the cube in the perfect spot. Despite his full day of deliveries and pickups, this man did not act as if he were in a hurry. He seemed quite relaxed, unlike most delivery people I had encountered on the East Coast.
Then I got on Craigslist to find some movers to unload the cube. By mid-afternoon the crew showed up; the first guy to arrive, a 36-year old fellow with craggy good looks, a pack of cigarettes in the sleeve of his shirt and a prosthetic leg from a drunk-driving accident in his teens, apologized for his somewhat disheveled appearance, saying that he hadn't been planning to work that day. It didn't bother me that he showed up in jeans and a t-shirt (he's moving stuff, after all), but as he worked up a sweat carting boxes up to my apartment it became clear that he probably hadn't showered in the preceding few days. His exertions released an increasingly foul odor in my apartment. I turned the ceiling fan on the highest speed and opened all the windows, hoping that would help. This man was also ingratiatingly and somewhat aggressively polite, insisting on calling me Ma'am at every opportunity despite my protestations.
"Whatever you say, Ma'am"
"No problem, Ma'am"
"Where should I put this, Ma'am?"
"We'll take care of everything, Ma'am"
"Thank you, Ma'am"
"Ma'am, do you mind if I take this call?"
After being Ma'am-ed to death over the course of nearly three hours I wanted to strangle him...except that would have meant touching him.
Since then I've unpacked about two-thirds of the boxes and so far all of my belongings are intact, even if the containers they were in got somewhat bit bent out of shape. It's been a month since I've seen all of my stuff and in the meantime I had forgotten exactly what I had put in the relocube. Imagine my delight and relief a few minutes ago when I opened a box and discovered some cones of frangipani incense I purchased in Thailand a few years ago.
Things are starting to smell a lot better around here.
Then I got on Craigslist to find some movers to unload the cube. By mid-afternoon the crew showed up; the first guy to arrive, a 36-year old fellow with craggy good looks, a pack of cigarettes in the sleeve of his shirt and a prosthetic leg from a drunk-driving accident in his teens, apologized for his somewhat disheveled appearance, saying that he hadn't been planning to work that day. It didn't bother me that he showed up in jeans and a t-shirt (he's moving stuff, after all), but as he worked up a sweat carting boxes up to my apartment it became clear that he probably hadn't showered in the preceding few days. His exertions released an increasingly foul odor in my apartment. I turned the ceiling fan on the highest speed and opened all the windows, hoping that would help. This man was also ingratiatingly and somewhat aggressively polite, insisting on calling me Ma'am at every opportunity despite my protestations.
"Whatever you say, Ma'am"
"No problem, Ma'am"
"Where should I put this, Ma'am?"
"We'll take care of everything, Ma'am"
"Thank you, Ma'am"
"Ma'am, do you mind if I take this call?"
After being Ma'am-ed to death over the course of nearly three hours I wanted to strangle him...except that would have meant touching him.
Since then I've unpacked about two-thirds of the boxes and so far all of my belongings are intact, even if the containers they were in got somewhat bit bent out of shape. It's been a month since I've seen all of my stuff and in the meantime I had forgotten exactly what I had put in the relocube. Imagine my delight and relief a few minutes ago when I opened a box and discovered some cones of frangipani incense I purchased in Thailand a few years ago.
Things are starting to smell a lot better around here.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Inflatable
Since arriving in Denver, and with the exception of the first night when I stayed at the home of my studio landlord, I have been camping out in my art studio, sleeping on a cotton mattress loaned to me by my landlord. He told me I could hang out here until I find a place to live and, while I did not intend to stay here a long time, the arrangement is proving to be somewhat convenient and helpful.
For one thing, I haven't completely decided if I want to rent an apartment or buy a place to live, so staying here is giving me a bit more time to think about that and keep exploring different neighborhoods and options. Furthermore, the combination of my cross-country drive, the adjustment to the altitude and to the realization that I actually did move left me feeling a bit shell-shocked and exhausted for the first several days after my arrival. I am grateful that I did not have to look for a place to live during a time of mental discombobulation. Finally, sleeping here makes my transition feel more like an adventure and it's a reminder of how far I've come in my personal growth - even a few years ago I would not have considered doing this, as it would have seemed too bohemian, and I probably would have been too afraid of arriving in a new city without a place to live or, more likely, afraid of what others might think of that.
But, it turns out that arriving in a new city with no place to live is not really a big deal. People are not looking at me cross-eyed. I have a small refridgerator here, a microwave, an electric tea kettle, a place to park my car, a bathroom and coin-operated laundry in the basement. And, of course, wireless access. The showers don't work but that merely motivated me to take advantage of a free introductory membership at the local YMCA, where I enjoyed yoga and dance classes in addition to the sauna and showers. And with my free trial about to expire, now I've found a yoga studio with showers a few minutes' drive from my studio - all the more incentive to develop a regular yoga practice, something I've been wanting to do anyway.
When I slow down and take each day as it comes, solutions to my immediate logistical challenges keep presenting themselves. And so it was when my landlord - a portrait photographer - asked to borrow his mattress back temporarily. Sometimes he uses it as a prop when photographing infants, allowing them to crawl all over it. Not wishing to engage in further mattress exchanges, and not wanting to continue to impose on him, I told him that he should hang onto the mattress and I'd find something else to use. I did bring a camping mattress with me, but it is quite thin. After going for a short hike yesterday afternoon to clear my head and stretch my legs, I noticed a Bed Bath & Beyond on the other side of the highway. I pulled off the road and found my way into the store. It turns out that they were having a sale and the more deluxe inflatable mattress was 30% off. I took a twin size and put it in my shopping cart. Arriving at the checkout, I couldn't decide which line to get into and hung back for a few minutes while others got in the queue. My indecisiveness proved to have a purpose. When I finally chose a register, I ended up behind a customer with an entire deck of store coupons and a generous spirit. She asked me if I'd like a coupon (yes!) and, after flipping through her stash, handed me one for 20% off. It had already expired but the store accepted it, no questions asked. Knowing that I got a good deal helped me sleep better at night, and the mattress itself was quite comfortable, too.
Tomorrow I will resume looking for a place to live.
For one thing, I haven't completely decided if I want to rent an apartment or buy a place to live, so staying here is giving me a bit more time to think about that and keep exploring different neighborhoods and options. Furthermore, the combination of my cross-country drive, the adjustment to the altitude and to the realization that I actually did move left me feeling a bit shell-shocked and exhausted for the first several days after my arrival. I am grateful that I did not have to look for a place to live during a time of mental discombobulation. Finally, sleeping here makes my transition feel more like an adventure and it's a reminder of how far I've come in my personal growth - even a few years ago I would not have considered doing this, as it would have seemed too bohemian, and I probably would have been too afraid of arriving in a new city without a place to live or, more likely, afraid of what others might think of that.
But, it turns out that arriving in a new city with no place to live is not really a big deal. People are not looking at me cross-eyed. I have a small refridgerator here, a microwave, an electric tea kettle, a place to park my car, a bathroom and coin-operated laundry in the basement. And, of course, wireless access. The showers don't work but that merely motivated me to take advantage of a free introductory membership at the local YMCA, where I enjoyed yoga and dance classes in addition to the sauna and showers. And with my free trial about to expire, now I've found a yoga studio with showers a few minutes' drive from my studio - all the more incentive to develop a regular yoga practice, something I've been wanting to do anyway.
When I slow down and take each day as it comes, solutions to my immediate logistical challenges keep presenting themselves. And so it was when my landlord - a portrait photographer - asked to borrow his mattress back temporarily. Sometimes he uses it as a prop when photographing infants, allowing them to crawl all over it. Not wishing to engage in further mattress exchanges, and not wanting to continue to impose on him, I told him that he should hang onto the mattress and I'd find something else to use. I did bring a camping mattress with me, but it is quite thin. After going for a short hike yesterday afternoon to clear my head and stretch my legs, I noticed a Bed Bath & Beyond on the other side of the highway. I pulled off the road and found my way into the store. It turns out that they were having a sale and the more deluxe inflatable mattress was 30% off. I took a twin size and put it in my shopping cart. Arriving at the checkout, I couldn't decide which line to get into and hung back for a few minutes while others got in the queue. My indecisiveness proved to have a purpose. When I finally chose a register, I ended up behind a customer with an entire deck of store coupons and a generous spirit. She asked me if I'd like a coupon (yes!) and, after flipping through her stash, handed me one for 20% off. It had already expired but the store accepted it, no questions asked. Knowing that I got a good deal helped me sleep better at night, and the mattress itself was quite comfortable, too.
Tomorrow I will resume looking for a place to live.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Installed, Invested
I have lived in many different apartments. Even in the ones I owned I did not invest much time, effort or money in trying to optimize the lighting. Somehow, the decisions involved in choosing floor lamps and hanging light fixtures seemed overwhelming, not to mention permanent. Especially with lighting that would require installation on a wall or a ceiling, selecting a particular fixture for a given room and hiring an electrician to hook it up seemed akin to making an irrevocable commitment. Table lamps, however, didn't stir up as much angst - they could be moved from place to place or sold - so I would buy those instead. As a result, I suffered with sub-par lighting in most of my living spaces and even in my Boston area art studio rather than install the "wrong" lights and then feel compelled to live with the mistake.
But the bigger blunder and spiritual error was not committing to my comfort and not meeting the needs I had at various times, even if these needs were to change and would therefore require an adjustment in how I addressed them and perhaps an additional cost. Part of the reason for moving myself and my stuff 2,000 miles away was to remind myself that I am starting over, hitting the reset button on many areas of my life, that I am not going to keep doing the same thing over and over again.
On Monday I spent a good chunk of the afternoon at Home Depot in the lighting department, choosing track lights, connectors, and dimmer switches. Add to that some shelving components and a refridgerator, and I also spent a good chunk of change. But the person who wrote "spent a good chunk of change" was listening to the voice of scarcity, e.g. my inner cheapskate, which views every dime spent as a depletion of fixed and limited amount of resources. If I switch hats, to that of the voice of abundance, I could instead write that I made a large investment in my new space and in myself, in that I committed to creating a functional work environment to which I'll attract buyers of my art.
On Tuesday morning the handyman showed up at 9:30 a.m. sharp to install the shelves and the track lights. When he removed the existing fluorescent fixture from the ceiling we noticed a short metal pipe protruding, a relic of the era when this room was lit by a gas lamp. In order to cover it up he needed additional materials, plus he needed some components that the Home Depot staff hadn't been able to show me, so off he went to spend yet another chunk of change. To distract my inner cheapskate from counting the minutes that he was gone, time which she was paying for, I primed and painted the shelves that the Home Depot staff had cut for me out of a large sheet of fiberboard.
Still, the cheapskate has been obsessing about the total cost - umm...investment - that my higher self had made in my well-being and in my mosaic art, which deserves to be properly illuminated. My inner cheapskate keeps yammering that I should have looked for a less expensive handyman (this guy had a reasonable rate, came recommended and had worked in this building), shopped around for cheaper lights (well, I did get the most basic kind) and is still coming up with ways that I could have done it for less. But, I knew that if I had spent too much time trying to tweak it to get the best price possible, my cheapskate might have talked me out of it altogether.
Now, at least, the tracks and lamps are installed. The investment in a supportive and functional work space has been made. The only thing left to negotiate with my inner cheapskate is how much we'll spend on - I mean invest in! - full-spectrum 50-watt bulbs.
But the bigger blunder and spiritual error was not committing to my comfort and not meeting the needs I had at various times, even if these needs were to change and would therefore require an adjustment in how I addressed them and perhaps an additional cost. Part of the reason for moving myself and my stuff 2,000 miles away was to remind myself that I am starting over, hitting the reset button on many areas of my life, that I am not going to keep doing the same thing over and over again.
On Monday I spent a good chunk of the afternoon at Home Depot in the lighting department, choosing track lights, connectors, and dimmer switches. Add to that some shelving components and a refridgerator, and I also spent a good chunk of change. But the person who wrote "spent a good chunk of change" was listening to the voice of scarcity, e.g. my inner cheapskate, which views every dime spent as a depletion of fixed and limited amount of resources. If I switch hats, to that of the voice of abundance, I could instead write that I made a large investment in my new space and in myself, in that I committed to creating a functional work environment to which I'll attract buyers of my art.
On Tuesday morning the handyman showed up at 9:30 a.m. sharp to install the shelves and the track lights. When he removed the existing fluorescent fixture from the ceiling we noticed a short metal pipe protruding, a relic of the era when this room was lit by a gas lamp. In order to cover it up he needed additional materials, plus he needed some components that the Home Depot staff hadn't been able to show me, so off he went to spend yet another chunk of change. To distract my inner cheapskate from counting the minutes that he was gone, time which she was paying for, I primed and painted the shelves that the Home Depot staff had cut for me out of a large sheet of fiberboard.
Still, the cheapskate has been obsessing about the total cost - umm...investment - that my higher self had made in my well-being and in my mosaic art, which deserves to be properly illuminated. My inner cheapskate keeps yammering that I should have looked for a less expensive handyman (this guy had a reasonable rate, came recommended and had worked in this building), shopped around for cheaper lights (well, I did get the most basic kind) and is still coming up with ways that I could have done it for less. But, I knew that if I had spent too much time trying to tweak it to get the best price possible, my cheapskate might have talked me out of it altogether.
Now, at least, the tracks and lamps are installed. The investment in a supportive and functional work space has been made. The only thing left to negotiate with my inner cheapskate is how much we'll spend on - I mean invest in! - full-spectrum 50-watt bulbs.
Monday, September 8, 2008
Interstate: Itinerary, Imperfect
The first of several postings on my long-distance car trip from Boston to Denver. Wireless access has been sporadic so these are not real-time postings.
I left the Boston area, specifically my mother's house, on Thursday, September 4, at around noon. I did not have a map or an exact itinerary, I just knew that I wanted to arrive in the Chicago area by either Friday evening or Saturday morning to visit a friend. My car was packed, but a bit carelessly. I had thrown my cosmetics into a shoebox and put that in the back seat, along with several suitcases, two yoga mats, my sleeping bag, a camping mattress, a bag of books, and a few milk crates filled with financial and personal documents. Most of the people reading this blog would not leave for a 2,000+ mile car trip in such haste. And I suspect that many of them would have carefully plotted and planned the route, figuring out ahead of time where they would be spending the night and what sights they wanted to see along the way. Perhaps they would have consulted other people about hotels, restaurants, road conditions, the cheapest gas stations. That is certainly one way to travel, but that isn't always my way.
After years of living in a place where I increasingly didn't want to be, and with the accumulated inertia weighing on me like a leaden blanket that grew heavier by the hour, I genuinely feared that if I didn't just go at that moment that I would never leave. And after packing up my studio and my apartment, which involved much heavy lifting and the emotionally difficult act of sorting and discarding possessions, I didn't have the capacity to plan anything, to predict what route I might want to take. Well-meaning people asked me how I planned to get from Boston to Denver and I simply could not answer them. I really had no idea, I had not looked into it. In a sense it did not matter if my route took me north, south or due west. I just needed to hit the road and trust that I would have the trip that I needed to be having at this time. Trying to optimize, strategize or otherwise try to create a more perfect trip was simply not something my brain could handle.
Still, I was not a completely reckless traveler. My first stop was at the AAA Office in Newton, MA. I walked in and told them I was leaving for Evanston, IL and could they please get me a TripTik, which is their customized travel booklet.
"Did you order one?" the man behind the counter asked.
"No," I said.
"TripTiks take days to prepare," the man informed me, looking at me as if I were slightly insane. Maybe that is how I looked.
"Oh," I said, unfazed. "It says on your website that you create them on demand. I had no idea they were so complicated."
"Well, we might be able to do one quickly for you. Where are you going?"
I gave him my friend's address and told him that I only needed a route and a place to stay that was mid-way between Boston and Evanston. To simplify the task, I told him that I did not need information on every single attraction, shopping mall and restaurant along the way.
"Could you come back in 2-3 hours?" he asked.
"No," I said, "I need to leave soon so I can get in enough daylight driving hours. Perhaps I could just take a map?"
"Well," he replied, as if he were afraid to let me loose on the road without a TripTik, "Have you had lunch yet? If not, come back in an hour. I'll have it then."
It turns out that TripTiks, if requested with a smile, take less than an hour to prepare. When I returned 60 minutes later, after having gassed up, bought some food and visited the ATM, it was already completed and had my name on it. They had highlighted the AAA recommended route in orange pen, and all I had to do was follow it. That was pretty much all I was capable of at that time, following someone else's directions. That night I made it as far as Milesburg, PA on I-80 after making what for my family is a ritual stop at Rein's Deli in Vernon, CT.
I left the Boston area, specifically my mother's house, on Thursday, September 4, at around noon. I did not have a map or an exact itinerary, I just knew that I wanted to arrive in the Chicago area by either Friday evening or Saturday morning to visit a friend. My car was packed, but a bit carelessly. I had thrown my cosmetics into a shoebox and put that in the back seat, along with several suitcases, two yoga mats, my sleeping bag, a camping mattress, a bag of books, and a few milk crates filled with financial and personal documents. Most of the people reading this blog would not leave for a 2,000+ mile car trip in such haste. And I suspect that many of them would have carefully plotted and planned the route, figuring out ahead of time where they would be spending the night and what sights they wanted to see along the way. Perhaps they would have consulted other people about hotels, restaurants, road conditions, the cheapest gas stations. That is certainly one way to travel, but that isn't always my way.
After years of living in a place where I increasingly didn't want to be, and with the accumulated inertia weighing on me like a leaden blanket that grew heavier by the hour, I genuinely feared that if I didn't just go at that moment that I would never leave. And after packing up my studio and my apartment, which involved much heavy lifting and the emotionally difficult act of sorting and discarding possessions, I didn't have the capacity to plan anything, to predict what route I might want to take. Well-meaning people asked me how I planned to get from Boston to Denver and I simply could not answer them. I really had no idea, I had not looked into it. In a sense it did not matter if my route took me north, south or due west. I just needed to hit the road and trust that I would have the trip that I needed to be having at this time. Trying to optimize, strategize or otherwise try to create a more perfect trip was simply not something my brain could handle.
Still, I was not a completely reckless traveler. My first stop was at the AAA Office in Newton, MA. I walked in and told them I was leaving for Evanston, IL and could they please get me a TripTik, which is their customized travel booklet.
"Did you order one?" the man behind the counter asked.
"No," I said.
"TripTiks take days to prepare," the man informed me, looking at me as if I were slightly insane. Maybe that is how I looked.
"Oh," I said, unfazed. "It says on your website that you create them on demand. I had no idea they were so complicated."
"Well, we might be able to do one quickly for you. Where are you going?"
I gave him my friend's address and told him that I only needed a route and a place to stay that was mid-way between Boston and Evanston. To simplify the task, I told him that I did not need information on every single attraction, shopping mall and restaurant along the way.
"Could you come back in 2-3 hours?" he asked.
"No," I said, "I need to leave soon so I can get in enough daylight driving hours. Perhaps I could just take a map?"
"Well," he replied, as if he were afraid to let me loose on the road without a TripTik, "Have you had lunch yet? If not, come back in an hour. I'll have it then."
It turns out that TripTiks, if requested with a smile, take less than an hour to prepare. When I returned 60 minutes later, after having gassed up, bought some food and visited the ATM, it was already completed and had my name on it. They had highlighted the AAA recommended route in orange pen, and all I had to do was follow it. That was pretty much all I was capable of at that time, following someone else's directions. That night I made it as far as Milesburg, PA on I-80 after making what for my family is a ritual stop at Rein's Deli in Vernon, CT.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Interchange
My launching pad for my upcoming move is my mother's house. She has generously allowed me to fill her screened in porch and garage with the pared down contents of my studio and my apartment, which will soon be loaded onto two pods for transport to Colorado. Not knowing where exactly I'd be moving to, I have spent months slowly whittling down my possessions to only those things that I absolutely need, really love or can't easily replace.
The original idea was that I'd load up a trailer, attach it to my car and drive out with as little as possible. Then I learned that my car, with all wheel drive, is not really designed for towing, and that the trailer that it could safely carry wouldn't fit very much anyway. Not to mention that the installed trailer hitch was quite rusted and might not be terribly secure.
Plan B was to rent a truck, load up my belonging, attach my car onto a flatbed trailer behind it and drive the contraption out West. For many weeks I had a romantic attachment to the idea of a sola long-distance truck trip and I refused to consider other options. It seemed adventurous, a bit challenging, something that I wouldn't normally do...a way to step out of my box and signal the transition I am making. Then I regained my sanity and realized that renting, loading, driving and unloading a truck would probably be much more stressful, not to mention more expensive, than shipping my belongings in pods.
The pods changed the plan. On a per pod basis, it was cheaper to order two, rather than one, and since I am moving to two locations - an art studio first, and eventually an apartment or house, which I haven't found yet - it made sense to sort my belongings based on their destination. And as I am paying for two pods, I might as well fill them, rather than leaving each half full. Right...? Hmm.
Knowing that I have extra space, my mother has been wondering if I'd take back many of the items I've deposited at her house at other times when I've moved far away. It has become a bit of a ritual - she takes in my abandoned furnishings thinking that one day I might wish to be reunited with them. Her home sometimes looks like a museum of my past lives, filled with bookcases from two former apartments, tchotchkes I've collected overseas, lamps and wicker baskets I no longer needed or wanted, clothing that doesn't fit or suit me anymore, a love seat and a wooden chair. By and large I have refused to reclaim my old things, not wishing to be saddled with furniture for which I don't yet have a place, but over the weekend she was home cleaning, organizing and attempting to tempt me with her things - vintage Mexican baskets, pots and pans she found at a garage sale, her wet-dry vac.
No thanks, I said, to most of what was proposed for interchange, even if the items were perfectly good, useful or attractive. I wanted to try to hew to my initial vision of arrriving with as little as possible, even though my, ahem, minimalist holdings do occupy many boxes and take up several cubic feet. However, she did persuade me to adopt several blankets - useful for protecting furniture - a small boxed set of matching utensils and a small hooked rug with a butterfly design, something I made as a child. That reminded me of a vintage woolen rug from Mexico, also with a butterfly pattern, so I added that, too, to my pile....
When the pods arrive - supposedly soon - I will try to load and lock them as quickly as possible, preventing more things from stowing away to Colorado.
The original idea was that I'd load up a trailer, attach it to my car and drive out with as little as possible. Then I learned that my car, with all wheel drive, is not really designed for towing, and that the trailer that it could safely carry wouldn't fit very much anyway. Not to mention that the installed trailer hitch was quite rusted and might not be terribly secure.
Plan B was to rent a truck, load up my belonging, attach my car onto a flatbed trailer behind it and drive the contraption out West. For many weeks I had a romantic attachment to the idea of a sola long-distance truck trip and I refused to consider other options. It seemed adventurous, a bit challenging, something that I wouldn't normally do...a way to step out of my box and signal the transition I am making. Then I regained my sanity and realized that renting, loading, driving and unloading a truck would probably be much more stressful, not to mention more expensive, than shipping my belongings in pods.
The pods changed the plan. On a per pod basis, it was cheaper to order two, rather than one, and since I am moving to two locations - an art studio first, and eventually an apartment or house, which I haven't found yet - it made sense to sort my belongings based on their destination. And as I am paying for two pods, I might as well fill them, rather than leaving each half full. Right...? Hmm.
Knowing that I have extra space, my mother has been wondering if I'd take back many of the items I've deposited at her house at other times when I've moved far away. It has become a bit of a ritual - she takes in my abandoned furnishings thinking that one day I might wish to be reunited with them. Her home sometimes looks like a museum of my past lives, filled with bookcases from two former apartments, tchotchkes I've collected overseas, lamps and wicker baskets I no longer needed or wanted, clothing that doesn't fit or suit me anymore, a love seat and a wooden chair. By and large I have refused to reclaim my old things, not wishing to be saddled with furniture for which I don't yet have a place, but over the weekend she was home cleaning, organizing and attempting to tempt me with her things - vintage Mexican baskets, pots and pans she found at a garage sale, her wet-dry vac.
No thanks, I said, to most of what was proposed for interchange, even if the items were perfectly good, useful or attractive. I wanted to try to hew to my initial vision of arrriving with as little as possible, even though my, ahem, minimalist holdings do occupy many boxes and take up several cubic feet. However, she did persuade me to adopt several blankets - useful for protecting furniture - a small boxed set of matching utensils and a small hooked rug with a butterfly design, something I made as a child. That reminded me of a vintage woolen rug from Mexico, also with a butterfly pattern, so I added that, too, to my pile....
When the pods arrive - supposedly soon - I will try to load and lock them as quickly as possible, preventing more things from stowing away to Colorado.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Intrinsic, Imbued
A few conversations I've had recently about moving and stuff have got me thinking, yet again, about what to keep and what to toss. A woman moving into the apartment below mine with her two children tells me that she has so much furniture and books that she needs two trucks. I told her that I am trying to pare down as much as I can, including giving away books that I haven't opened in years and will probably never read again. They are just taking up space. Her eyes widened.
"But," she protested, "My books are a record of my life. I see them on the shelf and I'm reminded of all the things I've done."
I used to have that philosophy about things, especially books, that they provide reference points for my life's trajectory, that I needed them around in order to remember who I was and therefore who I am. They are souvenirs of moments in time, the past made visible. Books are also friends and companions, something to turn to when needing wisdom, solace or entertainment. And it used to be that I'd feel more comfortable visiting a home lined or littered with books rather than being in a space devoid of such decorations - yes, a well-stocked bookshelf can be aesthetically pleasing.
And yet, as another friend pointed out, every object gives off a certain energy, a vibration with which we or someone else has imbued it. Most of the time this energy is not intrinsic to the object but has to do with the circumstances through which it entered our lives. How did it arrive? Was the book (or thing) a loving and thoughtful gift from a kind person or did it come with some strings attached, an implied criticism or aggressive suggestion for how to improve? As I look at my stuff, books included, I am trying to recall how they came into my possession. If I am no longer friends with the person who gave it to me, do I hang onto it? Do I want to be reminded of people that either drifted away from me or I from them? Lately the answer is no, even if at the time I received the item the friendship was a happy one. Do I want to hang onto a piece of clothing that I purchased in a gloomy moment and/or only because it was a bargain? Again, the answer is no. At some point, the accumulation of reminders of what was can stifle what is or what is becoming.
The issue gets more complicated when I'm dealing with other people's things, such as items from my father's house or that were acquired while my parents were still married. Some of these objects are beautiful to behold yet their vibration is not completely positive, a sadness clings to them. Do I keep them long enough to see if I can attach a happier story to them? Can I see them simply as objects and enjoy them on a purely aesthetic and functional level, forgetting their provenance? Or do I let them go and lighten my load, choosing to honor the past without schlepping its physical manifestations along with me?
I will ponder these questions some more as I take another stab at sorting my books and my stuff.
"But," she protested, "My books are a record of my life. I see them on the shelf and I'm reminded of all the things I've done."
I used to have that philosophy about things, especially books, that they provide reference points for my life's trajectory, that I needed them around in order to remember who I was and therefore who I am. They are souvenirs of moments in time, the past made visible. Books are also friends and companions, something to turn to when needing wisdom, solace or entertainment. And it used to be that I'd feel more comfortable visiting a home lined or littered with books rather than being in a space devoid of such decorations - yes, a well-stocked bookshelf can be aesthetically pleasing.
And yet, as another friend pointed out, every object gives off a certain energy, a vibration with which we or someone else has imbued it. Most of the time this energy is not intrinsic to the object but has to do with the circumstances through which it entered our lives. How did it arrive? Was the book (or thing) a loving and thoughtful gift from a kind person or did it come with some strings attached, an implied criticism or aggressive suggestion for how to improve? As I look at my stuff, books included, I am trying to recall how they came into my possession. If I am no longer friends with the person who gave it to me, do I hang onto it? Do I want to be reminded of people that either drifted away from me or I from them? Lately the answer is no, even if at the time I received the item the friendship was a happy one. Do I want to hang onto a piece of clothing that I purchased in a gloomy moment and/or only because it was a bargain? Again, the answer is no. At some point, the accumulation of reminders of what was can stifle what is or what is becoming.
The issue gets more complicated when I'm dealing with other people's things, such as items from my father's house or that were acquired while my parents were still married. Some of these objects are beautiful to behold yet their vibration is not completely positive, a sadness clings to them. Do I keep them long enough to see if I can attach a happier story to them? Can I see them simply as objects and enjoy them on a purely aesthetic and functional level, forgetting their provenance? Or do I let them go and lighten my load, choosing to honor the past without schlepping its physical manifestations along with me?
I will ponder these questions some more as I take another stab at sorting my books and my stuff.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Incremental
Bit by bit, step by step, piece by piece. That is how things, people and lives are built. I'm discovering it is also how lives are taken apart, as I prepare to move a few thousand miles away. For a long time - longer than I care to admit - I haven't wanted to be where I am. My body was in one place, my spirit in another. Now I am trying to make it possible for my body and other material manifestations - as in, my stuff - to move to where my spirit would like us all to be: Colorado.
Even though I don't even have that much in the way of big stuff - for example, I do not own a television, couch, armchair, dresser or stereo system - the process of classifying and culling my belongings is time consuming and emotionally draining. I find I can only do a little bit of it at a time. I'm a collector and somewhat of a packrat, and it is hard for me to part with things such as postcards and greeting cards I've purchased on trips, small books received as gifts, ceramic objects from near and far. While these don't necessarily take up that much space, and I could easily dump them in a box and ship them, I am trying to be conscious of what I take with me, what I sell or give away and what I stick in the trash; so far, nothing I've found has qualified for a fifth option, being consumed by bonfre. So, for example, the partially used box of "Quotable Canine" notecards that I received at my department's holiday raffle in 1997 at the Federal Reserve Bank of New York is, finally, OUT, in the "to be donated" pile. However, a half-consumed box of artsy cat notecards, a gift from my mother, is IN. Also in the OUT pile is "Food Values of Portions Commonly Used", a spiral bound volume I recovered from my father's home after he passed away. I will, on the other hand, be bringing my Hungarian cookbooks with me.
At my art studio the decision making has been difficult indeed. Which beads and mosaic materials to sell and which to keep? During the first pass through my stash I decided to keep any beads that I had purchased overseas or that had been part of a popular design. But those criteria left me with a large inventory and so I then reluctantly decided to sell some of the heavier and more expensive ones. In taking my studio apart, drawer by drawer, container by container, I came across even more beads and jewelry that I hadn't seen in years. I figured that if I had forgotten about them so easily, I wouldn't mind selling them and allowing others to enjoy them. But then someone would come into my studio, and ooh and aah over them, and for a moment I'd experience a pang of envy and want them for myself. The pang was particularly piquant when other jewelry designers came in to pick over my collection; I felt like I was watching vultures pluck the meat from the bones of my business. One woman, while scooping up some luscious glass beads, asked me if I'd be keeping my website and making jewelry out West - as in, if I weren't going to keep producing my designs then she certainly could, presenting them as her own. For a split second, my competitiveness and anger surged and I wanted to take back all the beads and escort her out of my studio via a swift and sharp boot in the butt.
One day an artist friend and collector of mermaid themed items came to the studio to give me a farewell hug. He is about to move house, after living in the same apartment for 18 years, and faces similar decisions for what I suspect is an even greater quantity of stuff.
"You know," he said, "sometimes I wonder if I'd be better off if I came home and discovered that the house had burned down. Then I could start from scratch."
I nodded. Suddenly losing one's belongings might be a traumatic but ultimately liberating experience. And I realized that I still have the option of selling or dumping most of what I own, heading to Colorado with only what fits in the back of my car. I wouldn't be the first person to do such a thing. But choosing to quickly divest of most of the objects that reflect my life's trajectory feels a bit too radical; I think I need some tangible reminders of who and where I've been to help me create who I am going to be. For years, my collection of beads reflected my tastes, my travels, and my thought processes, and being surrounded by these objects was a source of comfort and reassurance. If I started to run out of a certain kind, I'd order more, just to have them around. Those beads filled some of the holes in my life.
But as the process incrementally deconstructing my studio continues, I am learning to relish it when people come in and relieve me of objects small and large. As things sell, space frees up in my body and mind. I feel lighter. And I know that once I get to where I am going I will have forgotten about most of the things I chose to leave behind, who is using them and how.
And, piece by piece, bit by bit, I'll get to build the next part of my life.
Even though I don't even have that much in the way of big stuff - for example, I do not own a television, couch, armchair, dresser or stereo system - the process of classifying and culling my belongings is time consuming and emotionally draining. I find I can only do a little bit of it at a time. I'm a collector and somewhat of a packrat, and it is hard for me to part with things such as postcards and greeting cards I've purchased on trips, small books received as gifts, ceramic objects from near and far. While these don't necessarily take up that much space, and I could easily dump them in a box and ship them, I am trying to be conscious of what I take with me, what I sell or give away and what I stick in the trash; so far, nothing I've found has qualified for a fifth option, being consumed by bonfre. So, for example, the partially used box of "Quotable Canine" notecards that I received at my department's holiday raffle in 1997 at the Federal Reserve Bank of New York is, finally, OUT, in the "to be donated" pile. However, a half-consumed box of artsy cat notecards, a gift from my mother, is IN. Also in the OUT pile is "Food Values of Portions Commonly Used", a spiral bound volume I recovered from my father's home after he passed away. I will, on the other hand, be bringing my Hungarian cookbooks with me.
At my art studio the decision making has been difficult indeed. Which beads and mosaic materials to sell and which to keep? During the first pass through my stash I decided to keep any beads that I had purchased overseas or that had been part of a popular design. But those criteria left me with a large inventory and so I then reluctantly decided to sell some of the heavier and more expensive ones. In taking my studio apart, drawer by drawer, container by container, I came across even more beads and jewelry that I hadn't seen in years. I figured that if I had forgotten about them so easily, I wouldn't mind selling them and allowing others to enjoy them. But then someone would come into my studio, and ooh and aah over them, and for a moment I'd experience a pang of envy and want them for myself. The pang was particularly piquant when other jewelry designers came in to pick over my collection; I felt like I was watching vultures pluck the meat from the bones of my business. One woman, while scooping up some luscious glass beads, asked me if I'd be keeping my website and making jewelry out West - as in, if I weren't going to keep producing my designs then she certainly could, presenting them as her own. For a split second, my competitiveness and anger surged and I wanted to take back all the beads and escort her out of my studio via a swift and sharp boot in the butt.
One day an artist friend and collector of mermaid themed items came to the studio to give me a farewell hug. He is about to move house, after living in the same apartment for 18 years, and faces similar decisions for what I suspect is an even greater quantity of stuff.
"You know," he said, "sometimes I wonder if I'd be better off if I came home and discovered that the house had burned down. Then I could start from scratch."
I nodded. Suddenly losing one's belongings might be a traumatic but ultimately liberating experience. And I realized that I still have the option of selling or dumping most of what I own, heading to Colorado with only what fits in the back of my car. I wouldn't be the first person to do such a thing. But choosing to quickly divest of most of the objects that reflect my life's trajectory feels a bit too radical; I think I need some tangible reminders of who and where I've been to help me create who I am going to be. For years, my collection of beads reflected my tastes, my travels, and my thought processes, and being surrounded by these objects was a source of comfort and reassurance. If I started to run out of a certain kind, I'd order more, just to have them around. Those beads filled some of the holes in my life.
But as the process incrementally deconstructing my studio continues, I am learning to relish it when people come in and relieve me of objects small and large. As things sell, space frees up in my body and mind. I feel lighter. And I know that once I get to where I am going I will have forgotten about most of the things I chose to leave behind, who is using them and how.
And, piece by piece, bit by bit, I'll get to build the next part of my life.
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