The Barn, ii

I stopped worrying about the feelings of inanimate objects long ago.

Despite past accumulations, most now purged, I've never actually been
terribly sentimental. When I put boxes of things up in the attic of
the garage at age 10, I felt guilty and horrible for relegating gifts
from people I loved to an existence crammed with other pieces of crap
in cardboard that I couldn't bear to send to Goodwill. I didn't like
hurting the feelings of those hideous or strange objects but at some
point in my life I learned that it is more selfish to keep what you
don't want/appreciate than it is to send it back into the universe to
be used more purposefully. Whether it's recycling handmade gifts or
putting Grandma's black & yellow sweater with STARS on it in the
Goodwill bin, the items get put back into the universe's grand
exercise of rotation...instead of choking the life out of everything
around them.

I think even as a child, I was considering objects in terms I still do
today (though now I have to sift through years of complicated
reasoning processes to determine the bottom line.) I think I've
always seen myself as some sort of observer or storyteller, a 3rd
party perhaps, to most of my own life's experiences. I have believed
that the presentation of a well timed prop can truly make a tale
unforgettable. There have been occasions where I've pulled out a
letter or a photo and believed that the act of doing so engineered
something valuable. What I've learned from these occasions is that
the story I tell when I reveal my "hand" is not my story. By saving
these artifacts, I am distracting myself from understanding and
accepting details from my own story.

So, these days, I think a lot about the story I speak in the things I
keep, carry and reveal. I worry about my legacy and whether it is
both gentle and clear enough to be either relevant...or negligible
Either is really quite fine.

It is less difficult now to think about my "footprint" knowing that,
should I be so fortunate, my children will have to bear whatever
legacy I leave. I have choices in this process and I want to be more
deliberate with how I manage what stands to be inherited. From
material assets to ideological ones, I need to be more intentional
with my choices.

All this, so far, to simply say that what stands in my way of "seeing
the moon" stands in my kids' way too. I need to make the way clear,
certainly for myself, but more importantly, for them.

Status Update

Right now, I am focused on the physical aspects of my "barn." I've
been honing my ability to properly simplify my space for almost 3
decades. I understand that the philosophical nature of this pursuit
is integral to sustaining simplicity as a lifestyle and I do feel that
both - the philosophical and the material - are truly within reach.
This feels like a big deal. I am sensing that certain obstacles which
have burdened me in the past are not simply being shoved aside or
prioritized down but rather that they are suspended happily somewhere
(though unheavily) in my mind.

The current purging tactics are to liberate items I didn't know I even
had as well as those I wouldn't want right now if I didn't have
them. Items such as airplane blankets (yes, that's plural), serving
tray, a million plastic Asian soup spoons (for when I had time to
dream up and make amuse-bouche), etc. I also keep reminding myself
what life might be like in 250 sq ft and try hard to purge accordingly.

My biggest hang up is saving various containers that COULD be useful
in organizing, schlepping stuff around, etc. I have an area that's
designed to allow me a limited amount of space for such things (I
can't quit cold turkey) but sometimes I make new piles that grow and
grow. This weekend I filled the recycle bins so containers are under
control again. I also loaded the 4 boxes and giant plastic bag of
stuff for goodwill into the car so the house feels cleaner but
certainly not done. We de plan a burning for the vernal equinox next
week so I am aiming to be closer to done by then. I plan to finally
print the photos I've been saving. With them I think I can do a basic
but visual feng shui of the home space.

Our space is getting easier to maintain as items finally truly find a
home. I can tell we're on track because I'm back to eagerly preparing
meals and wanting to venture out. While our meals are far from
elaborate they are incredibly more healthful than ever before.
Venturing out still inspires some anxiety but I feel more ready than
in times past, especially having identified what I want to feel when I
come home and working on the front end to achieve that feeling.

The Barn, i

From where I stand I can almost see "the moon." The barn is what
stands in my way and it is not just a physical structure in an
environmental space but it is also a mental and emotional jungle gym
of haphazard ideas, unfinished dreams and distorted expectations.

My barn today is becoming the diminished version of everything I've
ever built up and it is, quite frankly, slow going. I am working at
undoing years of thinking in terms of sentiment and possibility,
instead of in terms of utility and ease which I privilege in this
case. I struggle between valuing the art of creative expression that
both memorializes and endears AND the value of clarity and
consideration in acts of intention. For some reason, these seem to
diverge and can't both be recognized sufficiently or equitably in a
single endeavor.

For most of my life I have failed to adhere to the design commandment
that "form follow function" and instead have defaulted to employing
techniques, both actual and cognitive, that pull from the material and
mental scraps I've accumulated over time. I believe I am being
economical in this strategy and moreover, wise for acquiring a
collection of haphazardness and finding some (often) Lot 49ish way of
threading them together that even Pynchon would probably deem
desperate at best. Still, despite how desperate my attempt, this
strategy has felt most honest and true, most likely because it allows
me to expect (and get) less than I fear I deserve.

It is only in recent months that I have started to recognize that in
this kind of pursuit I am articulating that I believe I am worth
nothing more than a collection of scraps; that any visible record of
myself be in uneven segments; that my choices are only as valuable as
the piecemeal logic that I use to make them.

I recognize this and I don't accept it anymore.