Let me be clear: I have a LOT of stuff. I keep things because I think I’ll need them at some point. Or better yet, I tell myself that the Styrofoam container or rubber band from the broccoli will one day be upcycled for some creative purpose.
I can be a hoarder sometimes.
Except that I’ve been living in Gainesville with only a carload of possessions. Now, three years later, I’m back with the stuff I mainly didn’t miss while away. I missed people (and cats), not things.
I still like my stuff. It’s a huge, fleecy blanket I feel safe in.
I was never a Girl Scout, but I wholly subscribed to the motto of being prepared for everything all the time. That is, until I realized a dark motive—the need to be in control.
I wanted to believe that with enough planning, I could prevent disaster. I could hide in preparedness, in distractions—anything to avoid shining a light on that underlying fear. I was terrified of the buzz of busy-ness dying down, of having the security blanket yanked away.
Letting go of things has become, for me, an exercise in acknowledging that I have enough—more than enough. That things will be all right. Or that if something terrible happens, there was nothing I could have done anyway.
That there is only love, and this moment.