My husband's big complaint is that I am a material girl; no, I don't wear the latest fashions or anything, but I amass stuff, especially in the form of information (books, magazines, newspaper clippings), holistic health supports (an infrared sauna, a chi machine, essential oils, supplements, books, magazines) and kitchen gadgets (two flour sifters I've never used, a small Cuisinart I've never used and a Vita-Mix. At least I Freecycled the bigger, decade-old Cuisinart this week!)
Anyway, one night I shouted to him: "I am not simple! I will never be simple! I do not want to be!" I was trying to proudly claim my inner Renaissance woman, my full-of-passions self, the mama who will never sleep her life away!
And yet, now that there is a lot of stuff out of the house, I have to admit it feels pretty good. I feel lighter. The place seems more spacious. Maybe if I were simple we could make it work to stay here. But, remember, I am not. And we do have a three-year-old who someday will want to play with his toys in the living room again.
And his mom wouldn't want to think I had forever parted ways with lots of my things. They are just waiting for us in the neighbor's basement, hibernating through this spring of (we hope!) lots of traffic through our home, waiting until we set up camp in the new place and can give them new homes with more space in between.
I hope it feels like more space to the extent that I am envisioning. I'm sure that moving won't magically have me getting up at 5:30 a.m. to do yoga just because I have a place to write and set my bills. But a girl can hope, right?