I have an empty box in my hallway. Each day I pass it, knowing it sits there for one purpose – to collect old things to give away. However, that box has sat empty for some time, and serves as a reminder of what it is I need to do, but I just never seemingly have time to do it. And so, the box has now become part of what we’re trying to avoid – clutter.
Then there’s my case of “What Ifs” – “What if we’ll need this some day?” or “What if we have another?” or “What if the kids want these the second we give ’em away?” and on, and on, and on, ad nauseum.
Why do I do that? Why do we do that? Why do possessions weigh so heavily upon me with grief and sorrow if I even think of getting rid of them? The memory won’t die simply because they are given away. My children won’t be clothes-less if I part with some of their things. I’m a regular donater, used to be a regular yard saler – what’s changed? Our house certainly isn’t big enough, and yet there are boxes upon boxes of things that need combing through, or a sale to part with. It never ends.
And maybe that’s the problem.
With so many children, so little room, it’s a never-ending battle of “stuff” and I’m just tired of having to go through it all.the.freaking.time.
Maybe it’s my attempt at a perfection I cannot attain. Maybe it’s my need for some semblance of tidiness that is simply unattainable in this teeny house – at least unattainable in the way I would like it done, anyway.
I’m not sure exactly what it is, actually. But I do know we need to plan, because the move is happening whether I want it to or not (and OH! I want it to! We need out of here!) But the foreshadowing of all the work to come? Sigh.
Until then, until the time arises that I can set aside a day or more to dedicate to junk and excess and extra and erroneous, this box will continue to sit. And pester. And be in the way. And annoy. And remind me that it has a purpose, as do I, and I need to be like Nike and “Just Do It.“
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