Mine Mine Mine!

As I go through my things in an effort to pare down (and have a successful sale to pay Cay's college down-payment) I begin to think about how silly some of the things are that we attach deep meaning to. For example, we have two sets of pots and pans. One is packed with stuff for my new apartment. It's MINE vs OURS. Now if I were rational about this, I'd sell the pots we're using now and just start using "my" pots. But then they wouldn't be "my" pots, they'd be "our" pots, and I'd be losing something of my independence.

Doesn't make sense? I agree.

When I was a battered wife, I started squirreling things away for when I escaped. Pots, pans, towels, a shower curtain and a shower rug... things I felt I'd need to start up, and things that were portable. I'm not a battered woman anymore, I'm approaching being an empty nester, and I find I have the same thing: A box that contains my favorite books, pots, and my shower curtain and rug.

The idea of selling these things is threatening to me. The idea of moving them into the household and selling off the items we're currently using is also threatening to me.

This morning I opened up the cupboards where I keep my serving pieces: my single platter, my two serving bowls, my two ceramic baskets, and my little candy dish. And even as I write this, I can see how I'm reaffirming all of those ideas of possession. I didn't say "a single platter, two serving bowls, two ceramic baskets,and a little candy dish" I said "my... my... my... my...". But the point I wanted to make was opening the cupboard, and looking at them created a sense of anxiety.

"I need these things for when company comes" (I only use these items on Thanksgiving and Christmas). "I need these items for when the family visits" (I don't use them most days now, why would I need to if the girls come over?) and finally ... and most ridiculously... "If I don't have serving pieces they won't come for dinner."

OK... now where did that come from?

There are things I have that I don't want to get rid of that I have in my home and see every day. My museum quality reproduction pre-Columbian pot. My stature of Ganesha. My big hunk of petrified wood. A sea urchin test. An ammonite. These are all things that have specific memories attached to them, and they are things that in some way reaffirm my sense of strength and independence... and they have very little value at a sale.

The one item I leave out of that list that I display is my little ceramic Navajo turtle, which I don't particularly like, but was a gift from my eldest. I can't understand why someone in California going to a Pow Wow would buy someone living in the heart of Navajo country a Navajo piece of sculpture. The stuff is a dime a dozen around here, but the reason I keep it is because I fear that some day I won't live in Albuquerque, and I'll want something Navajo to remember New Mexico by.

It bothers me to have the words "fear" and "threatened" and "anxious" attached to my possessions. I don't have a lot. My rooms are sparse, we have no dressers, no dining set, no bedside tables. We have no large pictures on the wall, no expensive electronics. Our dvd player is a dinosaur, our TV the cheapest we could get and carry home on the bus.

I've lost everything before... going to Florida with just the three suitcases, moving cross country with only what I could fit in the back of the mini-van. And there have been times when all I owned was some pots, a shower curtain and some towels. I would hope, by now, that I could have less attachment... That I'd be ok with getting rid of what I do have right down to mattresses, clothing, and basic cooking items. But I'm not. And right now all I know is the deeper I cut, the more it hurts.