Moving in the spring should be mandatory. Motivation comes in many forms, but that pungent sweet spring air can induce a purging frenzy that even the most avid hoarder must struggle to overcome. Either that or they have olfactory issues, because really, who can resist throwing something out as soon as windows are yanked open on the first warm day of the year? Its part of the reason I would never survive somewhere with a year round static climate. I would end up with drowning in stuff.
You know, all the stuff I could never live without.
Like the half melted decorative candle left unlit since 2002, the beloved yet loathed pair of heels that pinch toes and spawn blisters the size of quarters that are overlooked in favour of a more comfortable pair, that purse so well worn it still contours to my body after gathering dust for a decade, the rollerblades, worn once, that left bruises, but thankfully no broken limbs. I even unearthed a tank top from a 1989 vacation and nail polish that might have belonged to my grandmother. You know, those cherished items that once meant something – the candle burnt during several girls night in, the purse and shoes worn back in my clubbing heyday, the nail polish instigating memories long forgotten and the rollerblades, well, who knows what I was thinking, except that getting rid of them is like throwing money away, and who knows, maybe I’ll use them one day. Wait, isn’t that the hoarders motto? Excuse me for a moment. Must chuck in bin. Now.
My new house is clean and sparkly and full of sunshine. My selective hoarding does not belong. I’m certain, even though my move is still impending, that I will float around in heaven, feeling lighter for the shed items. Until I have to clean the bathtub. And the fog will lift and I’ll realize how silly we were to agree on a house with no dishwasher or self cleaning bathroom to spare us more time.
Time which I could use to do useful things, like write again.
In my purge travels, I unearthed so many of my written musings, as far back as my youth when I thought I could write soap operas to recent drafts of my first, second and third novels. Yowzers. I’ve never stated it that way before – THREE NOVELS – even though they are all in various states of edit. Now I’m even more upset that they’ve been gathering dust on my desk all sad and lonely and frightened that they will never be flipped through again and now petrified that they will remain in one of those unpacked boxes one forgets about until the next move.
I must admit, their fear is contagious. I’m taking a detour on a divergent career path, one I’m hoping will afford me slightly more writing time in the long run but am resolved to return to them this summer, even in small bursts. I must. For my sanity really. These characters keep pinching me and jockeying for my attention. I’m actually a little afraid I’ll never get rid of them.
In the meantime, maybe if I keep throwing things away and keeping my new clutter free motto, I’ll have more space and time for the make believe worlds that co-exist in my head. But sometimes I worry it still won’t be enough. Does anyone know any of the upcoming winning lottery numbers? Anyone willing to share? No? Fine. I’ll just enjoy my new shiny home and figuring out which sunny writing corner sparks the most creativity. Until its time to purge and move all over again. But only ever in the spring.
Lydia Laceby 