Sundays

I’ve always liked Sundays.

When I was a child, Sundays were a change from our regular routines. We went to church as a family, so mornings were a flurry of getting everyone dressed and ready to go, each of us holding small envelopes for the collection basket. We fasted in those days, before communion, so we had breakfast when we got home, closer to lunch time.

While the small children changed into play clothes, we worked together to put a big meal on the table. Someone kept an eye on sausage or ham in the electric frying pan. Someone stood at the toaster, dropping in bread slices and buttering toast until two small plates were piled high with the results. Another helper fried potatoes. My mother stood at the stove, making fried eggs in the cast iron pan. Eggs to order! Two eggs scrambled for one child, one egg over easy for another…when everyone else was served, she put two fried eggs on her own plate, and sat down to join us.

After cleaning up from breakfast, Sundays were relaxed. Homework was finished by that time; housework was set aside for the day. We could read, or play games. In winter, we might go sledding. In the summer, there might be a little gardening to do. When I was small, my father mowed the lawn on summer Sundays. Half a century later, I still associate the smell of freshly-mown grass with Sunday afternoons!

As a young adult, Sundays were for family dinner with Mom and Dad. My sisters and I would gather our husbands and children and meet at the house where we had grown up. Sunday dinners were always a special event, with plenty to eat, and enough to offer company, if anyone else were to stop by. Sometimes we’d bring a dish to pass, or a big dessert. There was, perhaps a turkey in the roaster or a big ham in the oven, but Mom had jobs for each of us as we arrived.

There were potatoes to peel, and vegetables to clean. In the summer, large platters and bowls of tomato and cucumber slices would be prepared. Bread had to be sliced, and butter dishes filled. Small dishes of pickles and olives were set out. Sheila was often tasked with putting a fruit salad together. Brenda was the one that could make a perfect thickening for gravy.

As our families grew, we started taking count of how many were fed on any given Sunday. It wasn’t unusual to have twenty-five or more for dinner. The large dining table was never enough. Often, we opened up the big table in the back room. With all four leaves added, it stretched to almost twelve feet long. Card tables were set up on the porch, for overflow.

Sometimes, after dinner, Dad would get a poker game going in the garage. Inside, the cousins would play together. We sisters took care of the clean-up. The stacks of dishes, all washed by hand, would challenge many restaurants! After that, puzzles and games would come out.

In comparison, my Sundays are pretty sedate. Still, by design, they stand apart from the rest of the week. From the first of June through the end of September, I work on the weekends. On these Sundays when I’m not working, I linger over mornings. I spend longer in my robe, drinking coffee and watching the news programs. I fix breakfast. Sometimes, in good weather, I mow the lawn. Always, I enjoy good memories of past Sundays, surrounded by family.

Procrastination

Procrastination is certainly a topic I ought to be able to write a few words about. I’ve been procrastinating all of my life, since long before I even knew the word to describe it! If a task can be delayed, I will delay it.

According to Mirriam-Webster, “procrastinate implies blameworthy delay especially through laziness or apathy.” It does seem like a major personality flaw. In my case, it has caused me a lot of self-recrimination. For years, I thought of myself as a lazy person. Other than my habit of putting things off, though, I do not shirk hard work. It may look like I don’t care, but I know that I do.

Often, I have found that the procrastinator suffers the most for their actions. I can’t tell you how many sleepless nights I’ve had, trying to meet a deadline for something that I’d put off until the last moment. Shame and embarrassment are frequent companions. Though this has been a tendency I’ve struggled against for most of my life, it has never been “fun.”

I’ve read several books on procrastination, to try to get understanding that might help me to overcome it. Some suggest that procrastination isn’t really a “thing” on its own. It is a symptom, only. It has been suggested that it is one way that perfectionism manifests itself: for fear of not doing a job perfectly, it won’t get done at all. It is high on the list of indicators for ADHD. And sadly, it is often attributed, once again, to lack of motivation, disorganization, and laziness.

I’ve also read a good collection of books on motivation, on forming good and lasting habits, on getting things done. In some areas, I have improved. Still, procrastination is a part of my life. Sometimes, it is because a project is daunting. An overwhelming task is ripe for being put off. Organizing the studio was one of those things, put off for more than two years!

Sometimes, it’s because I’m afraid I won’t live up to my idea; this happens quite a bit where creativity is concerned. Essays aren’t written and painting aren’t actualized…out of fear that I’m not up to the task. I have a series of thirteen large collograph plates based on Native American moons. I made them more than five years ago. After much delay, I printed one of them, was not happy with the result, and have not made an attempt since.

Sometimes, the job being put on the back burner is tedious, or boring. I have a long list of items that fit this category. To read, there is the paperwork sent to me from my supplemental insurance company, the annual Medicare book, and a few articles clipped or saved to read “later.” Paperwork is always high on the list of things that get procrastinated in my house. Instructions for how to assemble my new broad fork cultivator (standing unassembled in my kitchen for 2 weeks), and how to set up my Waterpik (waiting on the ledge over the bathroom sink for a year!), among others. My income tax paperwork for last year is still not even started, already past the April 15th deadline.

This behavior of putting off only adds tension to my life. It makes me embarrassed, ashamed and disappointed in myself. It is not fun. But I can’t deny, procrastination seems to be a permanent fixture in my life.

Maintaining Focus

Maintaining focus. That’s my problem. For all of the myriad tasks I want to finish: home; studio; yard; garden; paperwork, I find it impossible to maintain my focus. The title came to me in the middle of the night. When I should have been focused on sleeping, by the way! Perfect! That would be my title for the letter M. I’ve struggled with it so much, the essay would practically write itself. In fact, I kind of did put it together in my head right then.

In the morning, I couldn’t remember the topic. I knew basically what it was about, but that perfect title eluded me. I went on to do other things, certain it would come back to me. I knew it started with M, and that it had to do with my inability to get anything accomplished. Could it have been “motivation?” No! Lack of motivation has never been my problem, though I guess it looks like it to other people. Laziness has also been a common guess, but I am not lazy.

Finally, in frustration, I typed “stay on task” into the Google search engine, and asked for synonyms. There it was: maintain. And that is the biggest detriment to my getting things done: I can’t seem to maintain focus.

Saturday was the first of three days off in a row, and I had big plans. I had work-in-progress in the studio, and I’d have loved to spend some time there, but, no. Housework has been taking a back seat to studio time and outdoor work; the whole place could certainly use a refresh. My primary goal, though, was outside. In order to ready the new garden spot for planting, I had to finish moving that long flower bed that stood in the way. All of the remaining rocks had to be hauled out of there, and hundreds of daylilies had to be dug up and moved. Pretty straightforward, right?

In addition, I wanted to stake out the boundaries of the new vegetable garden, to get a sense of how it would alter paths and views. I had a wheelbarrow full of weeds and dead stalks to be hauled away. And, I’d decided to move the potter’s wheel over near the garden shed, to make the backyard have better flow..

As soon as I finished my blog for the day, I headed outside. Then came back in to get a cup of coffee. Out again, then in to get the twine, and a tape measure. Next, I pulled a stand out of the garden shed, and placed the round metal patio table on it. Because, if I don’t have a “staging area,” I will spend most of the day searching, wondering where in heaven’s name I put the tape measure down.

I moved some rocks, then got the shovel to use as a lever to release some others. While I had shovel in hand, I dug up a few deep-rooted weeds, then dug some daylilies. That led to burrowing back into the shed to find a container to put the daylilies in. Which led to fussing with the spot where the potter’s wheel will go, and pruning the brambles that were tilting over the fence there. That led me to the front flower bed, where I, years ago, planted a service berry bush, a lilac, and a snowball bush all too close together. One of them has been sprouting new growth from their roots. All three shrubs – that are now as tall as small trees – need serious attention.

Well, they had mine. Crawling around in that bed led to getting the rake to clear the leaves out from under the bushes. I added the leaves to the new flower bed, which reminded me I still had a partially filled barrel of compost to empty into that spot. Which brought me back to where the potter’s wheel is, so I moved it onto the grass, and moved the pallet that keeps it off the ground. The pallet had boards on top of it; some of them had rotted away. Three were still good, and better than the boards I’d been using as a step outside the sliding glass door, so then I refashioned that. That led to getting the rake again, to clean out under the rhododendron that grows back there.

On, and on, and on, my day went like that. I got things done, yes. I was never idle. I managed to get a box of daylilies dug up and set aside for one friend; I posted on social media that if anyone were interested, they could come get more of them the next day. The problem is not that I don’t make progress; I do. I make progress in a hundred different directions. But the main, most important task of the day was not done. I can’t even say that I devoted the day to it, in an effort to complete it. I could not stick to my intended task. I did not keep my eye on the ball. As usual, the trouble is that I find it impossible to maintain focus!

How Much Time?

“How many hours did this take to make?”

As an artist, I hear this question a lot. When you go to buy a vacuum cleaner, there are many things to consider; how many hours went into its creation is probably not one of them. Yet, with artists and craftspeople, this seems to be an acceptable inquiry. I think it’s a way to attempt to assess value. I don’t believe it’s intended as an insult. Most people, I think, don’t realize that it is. “I want to be the judge,” it says, “of whether you deserve the hourly wage you’re asking for.”

In m experience, that’s not how art work is priced. First of all, in addition to the actual hours that go into any finished piece, there are all the life experiences and insights that contributed to a particular vision. There is the study of all the artists who came before, whose own unique artistry may have offered inspiration or influence. There is education, in whatever form, and time spent learning about and gaining mastery of the materials used. There is practice, and hard work to refine techniques and improve vision.

As an artist who works mainly in abstract imagery, I get defensive. The question is, “how much time went into this,” but I assume the thought process behind the question is more like, “my five-year-old could do this,” or “throw a bunch of scraps on a canvas, hmph!” I don’t show offense. My usual response is a self-deprecating laugh and “actually, much more time than you’d think!”

Working in the studio Sunday morning, I decided to document some of the process. My first hour is spent reading (I’m currently re-reading No More Secondhand Art by Peter London), and putting together a small collage. The routine of moving colorful papers around on a surface, observing how they interact, and making decisions about placement help to put me in the right frame of mind to get to work.

Next, I pulled out a painted panel, 20 inches square:

This piece started life in my studio about ten years ago. After preparing the surface, it was painted, repainted, sanded smooth, then painted again. I then used it as the basis for a painted collage, which I also counted as a failure. I used the panel next for an experiment with heavily textured paint. Each of these incarnations involved lots of “blood, sweat and tears,” plenty of angst, and a great deal of effort. However, it was still not working. Once again, I sanded it down.

The result was beautiful: Like an old building, it held hints of all of its previous lives. I studied it for weeks. Sometimes that leads to insight. My hope is that I’ll wake up one day and see it with new eyes, that I’ll see that whatever I did has finally turned it into a fine piece of art. Alas, that rarely happens. So, I added a pattern of circles placed in a grid pattern, to try to pull all the elements together. Then I went over that with a light glaze to make the grid less obvious, then went over that with some thin acrylic paint, allowed to drip through the glaze.

Again, a beautiful surface. Again, not “art.” So, after several weeks of contemplation, my decision was to use it as the basis for a collage. I pulled out my materials: measuring tape, scissors, x-acto knife, matte polymer gel to use as adhesive, and a tray of collage materials. First, the piece needed something large to ground the composition. I landed on a painted paper patterned with green. It appealed to me because it was such a contrast to the muted buff surface. I pulled a few other elements out of the tray, shuffled them around, and finally had to reject the green.

I liked the way a soft brown paper worked with the background and other elements, but it was a little small. I decided on two same-sized pieces, beside each other. Then a row of short, narrow strips marching across to unify the two large pieces. I liked the bright pink, but didn’t have enough. I went with a combination of ochre and white, and placed them closer to the bottom edge. A circle of handmade paper right in the center started to pull it together. Then, small pieces to bring out the hints of background color, to lead the eye over the surface, and to emphasize the playful nature I was going for.

Finally, I was ready to get a few elements fastened down. To be successful, this has to be done one layer at a time. So, after four hours of concentrated effort that morning, I have a good start. How much time, indeed!

Dogs

I have two dogs. The small one, Rosa Parks, has been with me since 2011. She was still a puppy then, less than six months old. And feisty! Though my old dog, Clover, had been here much longer, Rosa Parks quickly made it clear she was going to be the boss. Over the years, she has seen me bury Clover, then Blackie Chan, and then Darla. She managed to get along with all of these dogs, as long as they respected her place in the family. Now, we’ve added Stella.

The bigger dog, Stella, came to be a part of our household this year on New Year’s Day. She’s four years old and as sweet as can be. Stella is a beagle-lab mix, which seems like an odd combination, but has resulted in a dog that appears to be the best of both breeds. She rarely barks, and doesn’t bay or howl. She looks like a beagle, but doesn’t have that hound-dog smell. She’s very good-natured, friendly with people and with other dogs. She loves to be outside with me, and is a wonderful walking companion. She’s a fast learner, and tries hard to please. Stella has boundless energy!

Therein lies the problem. In this household, there is me: seventy-one years old; bad knees; low energy; works away from home up to four days a week; when at home, likes to read, or write, or work quietly in the studio. Then there’s Rosa Parks: thirteen years old; almost blind; nearly deaf; bad knees; low energy. Poor Stella! All she wants to do is play! She can run circles around we two old ladies, and she often does! Sometimes I hear a big sigh coming from Stella, and I think what a disappointment we must be to her.

And poor Rosa Parks! All she wants, when I get home from work, is to greet me. A simple, “hello, I’m glad you’re home.” In dog language. As she tries to make her way from dog bed to door, Stella leaps over her, then turns and does it again. She rolls her into the kitchen cupboards, then into the freezer on the other side. Stoic – and pretty sturdy for a little dog – she continues to get back up and walk toward me. I, meanwhile, am in the middle of my own struggle to make it into the house, as Stella leaps at me, letting me know, in her own way, that she missed me, too.

In the yard, or on our walks down the Fox Lake Road, Stella is certain that she can convince Rosa Parks to play. She never gives up! She runs at the little dog, circles her, ’round and ’round, and charges her with such force it knocks her for a loop. This terrifies Rosa Parks. Lately, in order to get our walk in, and to ensure that Rosa Parks also gets fresh air and companionship, I’ve been wheeling her in the stroller for two miles. I put her down to get some exercise just for the last little bit; by that time, Stella has spent much of her energy chasing chipmunks and squirrels!

Inside the house, most of the time, they respect each other’s space. They tolerate one another. Not perfectly, but. And then, every now and then, I find them snuggled together near the heater. That gives me hope that, in time, they’ll learn to love each other as much as I love each of them!

Clay

I can hardly believe that, three letters in to the alphabet, I’m already struggling with subject matter. C! I thought of “candy,” “cookies” and “chocolate” first – which may be indicative of my mental state, now that I’m back to Intermittent Fasting, of what’s foremost in my mind – but I rejected those ideas. It would be difficult, this morning, to come up with more than a sentence or two about sweets.

My name is Cindy…I have a sister Cheryl…Chris was one of my dearest friends…I had a dog named Clover…still, I was uninspired.

I thought of Charlevoix, the little town right across the water. We go there by boat or plane for doctors, or shopping, or as the first stop on the way to anyplace else. I was there yesterday, in fact. I went to see the eye doctor, and fit in some shopping, too. Still, it wasn’t inspiring enough for an entire essay.

Then, I thought about clay. I worked extensively in clay at Michigan State University, and my graduate degree was in ceramics. My specialty was primitive firing techniques, and I preferred hand-building methods. I should be able to come up with a few words!

A few years ago, I was working in clay almost every day. I’d start my studio time by making a small pinch pot, just to get me in the spirit, then move on to larger projects. My kiln is still packed away, though, so I was unable to finish anything. And, because my kiln is of average size, unlike the tall closet-sized kilns I worked with in college, I was not able to work in the size I was used to. But, I was adjusting.

The problem was that, in my small studio, it’s not possible to have many things going on at once, I finally packed my clay away to make room for collage and collagraph print-making. Which, now that I think about it, either of which would have been a more currrant topic today!

Clay was on my mind, though. When I cleaned the studio, I pulled two large plastic bins out from under the eaves, each filled with several plastic bags of dried clay. Summer is coming; I could work outside! It would be nice to get my hands in clay again! So, Monday, I separated it by color and type, broke it into chunks, and filled several five-gallon buckets. I covered each with water. They are standing in a neat row outdoors beside the garden shed. So, in a few weeks, I’ll have workable clay!

April 1st, Fox Lake Road

I have once again decided to participate in the A to Z blogging challenge that is held every year at this time. That means I’m committed to posting a blog every day this month, except Sundays, working through the alphabet for my subject matter. Some participants are much more specific in their plans. Not only will they write every day using the letters as their guide, but they have chosen themes as specific as “health,” “flash fiction,” “books.” or a host of other possibilities. Even with anything in the world to write about, I still struggle, some days, to come up with a topic; I won’t limit myself to a specific theme! Or, rather, the theme I chose was “random blogging.” That best describes what I do. Luckily, the challenge starts on April first, with the letter A, so there’s my subject, readymade! The first of any month is a good time for an update, so that’s what I’ll offer today.

First, the weather. We had a week of spring-like, shirt-sleeves weather a couple weeks ago. I made some serious progress toward making a new flower bed, and moving a border of stones from around the old one. Then, the temperature dropped, plunging us right back into wintry cold. Two days ago, we got snow! This time of year, I know it won’t last, so I just appreciated it for the novelty, and the beauty it added to my daily walk.

A quarter of the way through this year, I have to, I suppose, consider my progress – or lack thereof – on all of my good intentions for 2024. I planned to get serious, this year, about things that have been on my list of resolutions for several years now. To that, I added a couple new ideas. And, I did my best to make the whole thing more palatable by refusing to call them “resolutions,” and by measuring my successes and failures in smaller increments. That way, I won’t have messed up the entire year, if I’m not doing so well as of the first of April!

I have twenty pounds to lose. Having been skinny, and able to eat anything, for most of my life, I am not happy with regimens that ask me to eliminate food groups, count calories, or restrict portions. That is, any diet at all. I had success a couple years ago with Intermittent Fasting. It was relatively easy for me, and I lost weight right away. Until it stopped working, and the pounds crept back. So, on medical advice, I took a break from the fasting regimen, through the forty days of Lent, in the hopes that it would shock my body into responding to fasting, when I got back to it. The good news is that I didn’t gain any weight during Lent. I didn’t lose any either, though. Now, Lent is over, and I’m back to the plan. With high hopes.

I’ve continued to plug away at paring down, de-cluttering and organizing my small home. My biggest success in that department has been in my little studio. At the beginning of this year – and for quite a while before – it was so full, and so disorganized, it couldn’t be considered more than just a storage room. Incidentals that had no other designated place in my house joined with frames, art work, materials and supplies to fill all of the floor space, and every horizontal surface. It was impossible to use the room for its intended purpose!

After several weeks of planning – and being too overwhelmed by the immensity of the task to even start – I dug in. It was every bit as big a job as I imagined it would be…but beginning was the hardest part. I started by organizing the storage areas, under the eaves on both sides of the room. That created space, so that when I took something in hand, I had a sense of where it should belong. After more than a week of plugging away at it, the floor, the printing press and the drafting table were clear. The room was usable! There is still work to be done. I told myself I’d tidy a drawer or shelf each day upon entering the studio. So far, those tasks have taken a back seat to art-making. It feels good to be actually using the studio for creative pursuits. Right now, I’m calling that success!

This year, with a few planned exceptions, was going to be a year of no frivolous spending for me. In recent years, I’ve become pretty thoughtless about my consumerism. After a difficult day, it was easy to try to find comfort in some ill-considered and unneeded purchase. The no-spend commitment was intended to get my buying habits under control. It has helped. I am no longer mindlessly ordering books and other things from Amazon. I’m more cautious about what I put in my grocery cart. I’ve let magazine and streaming subscriptions lapse. My downfall has been the day I volunteer at our little resale shop. Everything is so cheap! If it is something that is really good, based on quality or color or label, I spend the few dollars to bring it home. But, I still feel guilty about it!

There are other things in my life that deserve an update: books I’ve read, or that I’m reading; the progress I’m making in getting rid of excess; my walking routine; plans for my garden; and how my dogs are settling in together. For today, though, this is enough! There’s a long month ahead!

Progress!

I’ve spent the better part of theI last three days in my studio, and I’m happy to report that I am finally seeing some progress. It’s not finished yet, but it is to a point where I can move freely through the space, access my materials, and find room to work. All of those things would have been impossible three weeks ago.

My studio is a small, unfinished room, and I’ve always treated it like a work space. To me, that means that works-in-progress can be left out, so that it’s easy to get back to them when I get a chance. So, my drafting table is generally cluttered with paint pots and collage materials; chairs are often in use as temporary easels; and any horizontal surfaces are fair game for anything I don’t want to put away. That “normal” state of disarray was far from the condition of that room lately!

It started, I think, with an organizing project in the other small upstairs room. I used my studio for over-flow items that I hadn’t decided what to do with. Then, several boxes of frames, on back-order since before my art show, finally arrived. Because I had no immediate use for them, I just shoved the unopened boxes into the studio. Teaching art classes at the Community Center, I would often pull papers and other supplies out of bins and drawers in my studio; when it came time to return them that night, tired, I often just stacked them wherever there was space. The result of all this was that it was almost impossible to even get into that room, let-alone actually use it as a space for art making!

This year, getting my studio clean and usable was at the top of my list of plans and intentions. I was determined! Still. it was an overwhelming undertaking. I didn’t know where to start. When a small room is filled to over-flowing, there is no space to shuffle things around to make a plan. I continued to show up for the task, but saw more frustration than progress. In between work, dog-walking, and other necessary pursuits I’ve been struggling with that upstairs room for two months!

The turning point came when I started the new flower bed outside my kitchen door. I needed large pieces of corrugated cardboard to mark the spot, and keep the grass and weeds from growing there. So, I sorted through a couple makeshift portfolios, consolidated the contents, and snagged the cardboard. Then, I unboxed the frames for more. Then, of course, I spent every spare moment for the next two weeks working outside, moving rocks to border the bed.

That might’ve been the end of all forward motion in the studio, except that the weather changed. The temperature dropped; the winds picked up; we even got some snow! Which makes any inside job much more desirable. So, it was back upstairs for me.

I started by shuffling things around in the storage space under the eaves on the south wall to make more room. That allowed me to add all of the frames to that area, along with the lithography stone, several intaglio plates, and scores of mat board and plexiglass that were already stored there.

Then, one by one, I went through the totes that take up the north wall, sorting and organizing the contents. I discarded anything that was no longer usable: glue that had stiffened; paints hardened in the tubes; and brushes encrusted with dried paint. As shameful as all that waste seemed, I withheld judgment. “Just do better from now on,” I told myself, and plodded on.

In clearing the drafting table and sweeping the floor, I filled a large trash bag. I shredded a mound of old drawings and prints, cleared two bookcases and carried them out to the shed, and put a chair in front of the window, for Stella to sit in when she joins me in the studio. I sanded the top of the drafting table, more to smooth out the lumps than to improve its appearance. Then, since I now have a studio space that I can work in, I actually spent time making art!

Fighting Sleeplessness and Other Worries

I have fought with insomnia for most of my life. Lately, though, I feel like I’ve finally gotten a handle on it. Most of the time. I try to read a little each night, but often find my eyes wanting to close and the book dropping out of my hands as I doze off. I know, then, that as soon as I turn out the light, I will be able to drift off to sleep. And I love that feeling!

Still, there are usually a couple days each month, often associated with a full moon, when I cannot fall asleep. Last night was one of those nights. I went to bed at a reasonable time, and read for a little while, I turned off the light, and lay there, unable to fall asleep. After an hour, I turned on my little tablet, and scrolled through Facebook for a while, then tried again. Still, sleep would not come. Finally, at three AM, I got out of bed, made a big bowl of popcorn, and watched two episodes of Monk on Netflix.

At four-thirty, I went back to bed. Then, I was worried that I’d sleep the whole day away. That would never do! This is my last day off! I have things to do! It’s primary day in Michigan, so I plan to go vote. I made good progress in the studio yesterday, and want to get that big job finished before I lose my momentum. Besides, if I slept too long, it would throw off my schedule, and I absolutely have to be able to sleep tonight, as I have to work tomorrow. So, I let all of those issues keep me from getting good rest, but I managed to get a bit of sleep before getting out of bed at eight-thirty.

What was keeping me awake last night? The sky was clear, and the moon, though not full, was very bright; that could have played a part. I made myself a cup of coffee in the afternoon and brought it upstairs with me while I worked in the studio. I only drank about half of it, but that still could have contributed to my insomnia. I always have little things I can pull from nowhere to worry about, whenever I am so inclined, and last night was no exception. Since I was awake anyway, I troubled over work, money, up-coming art classes, and the overall health of my little dog, who was wheezing a little bit in the bed beside me. Mostly, though, my mind was filled with images from recently-read books.

My bedtime reading material is always something light, easy-reading and maybe even a little bit boring. Nothing, ever, that might encourage a case of nerves. Last night, it was a book on gardening. However, yesterday while cleaning upstairs, I was listening to an audio book. A really scary audio book. I do not like to be terrified. I avoid movies that are too violent, or too frightening. I still, twenty years after seeing it, have nightmares about Silence of the Lambs! Once, having gotten embroiled in a show that was much more unnerving than I’d anticipated, I called my daughter. “Please just stay on the line with me until this is over,” I begged, “I want to see how this ends, but I cant watch it alone!”

The same holds true for books. I enjoy a mystery, but I think more of easy-going, Agatha Christie-style mysteries. Increasingly, it seems like writers feel the need to inject more horror and depravity into every story. I recently finished an awful one, about abduction, torture and mass murder. Even the hero was killed! It was haunting, I went right to my “Reminders” list on the refrigerator. Under “NEVER buy insurance from State Farm (the agent was very rude to me)” and “As soon as possible, find another telephone service (they refused to give me a credit for a 48 hour period that I was without service, because I didn’t call it in! How could I call, without phone service??),” I added “Never read books by C.J. Box.”

After that nightmare, rather than “audiobook mystery,” I typed “audiobook fiction” into the search line on my cell phone. I have a Libby account where I can check out audio or print books from the library at no charge. One downside is that selection is limited, and many titles have a waiting list. So, I’m dependent on the descriptions offered to make my choices. Carter & Lovecraft sounded fine, a nice bit of light-hearted banter having to do with history, books, and a bookstore. No! At least three chapters ended with “…and the world ended.” It captured my interest…I couldn’t walk away, had to see how it ended…but it terrified me! And, more than the moon, or afternoon coffee, or all the worries I could muster, I blame that book for my sleepless night!

Values versus Aspirations

“We hold onto material objects because we think they make us feel secure when in reality they are cluttering our lives.”

As someone who is intent on paring down my possessions this year, that quote really resonated with me. Since I’ve also committed to not adding to the mass of things I own, I’m very interested in the psychology behind acquiring and keeping so much stuff.

Why do I feel so drawn to accumulate more? I’ve been at this commitment for less than a week, and I already know it is not going to be easy. Almost immediately after the calendar turned to 2024, I thought of a dozen things I needed. Why didn’t I buy a good pair of scissors when I was still buying stuff? I worked four hours at the Resale Shop day before yesterday, and was tempted at least a dozen times. “Perfectly good” this, or “practically brand new” that, when the price is only a few dollars, is always appealing. Later, a trip to the grocery store was also a struggle. I had brought a list, and I stuck to it, but it took will-power! A few minutes on social media, and I’m bombarded by things that seem necessary in the moment. Right now, I can’t think of a single example, but on another day, I might have already made the purchase!

I don’t need any more stuff!! And yet, I always think that I do. It’s like that is my default setting. I don’t understand it. I know that the “scarcity mindset” – the feeling, often based on very real circumstances, that I don’t have enough – has something to do with it. But that’s no longer the case. I have enough!

The other question wrapped up in this issue is, why is it to hard to get rid of things? It seems that every single discard, sale or give-away is accompanied by hours of internal dialog:

“Am I sure I won’t need that?”

“I used to wear that all the time!”

“I remember when I bought that…”

“I’m sure, if I ever retire, I will use that!”

“Someone I love gave that to me.”

“Someone I used to love gave that to me during a really happy time in my life.”

“If I ever do this, I will need that.”

“You can no longer even find that book in hardcover anymore.”

“I intend to read that someday.”

“I have read that, but I might want to-read it again someday.”

And on, and on, and on. When it comes to the idea of getting rid of books, I swear my blood pressure goes up at even the thought! Anything my mother gave me, I break right into a sweat at the suggestion of passing it on. Art and craft materials in my house could all wear a label that says, “KEEP. JUST IN CASE,” because that’s exactly what I do! Why is it so difficult?

One article I read on this subject suggested that we acquire things, and hold on to them for dear life, because they somehow reflect an image of ourselves that we aspire to be. Not the person we actually are. That makes sense. When I am drawn to purchase a colorful pair of brand-new pajamas that came, like magic, into the resale shop in exactly my size, in the same year that I have a trip planned, I swear, I can see myself in those pajamas! As if I were a person who wears pajamas! As if I didn’t already own three pair of pajamas, one for warm weather, two for cold weather, set aside simply for travel, when I might need something more presentable than the raggedy sweatpants and T-shirts that I usually sleep in. As if, if I were ever going out to buy myself pajamas, I would choose that colorful pair! No!

That idea translates to many areas of my collections of stuff. I aspire to be the calm, orderly, thoughtful and meditative, tea-drinking, pajama-wearing person that a few simple purchases would make me. Except that it doesn’t work. In truth, aspirations are not values and, in many cases, they are not even reflective of my values I am plenty of things: family member, artist, writer, reader, craft-person, walker, dog-lover, gardener, baker, cook. Instead of gathering more things to try to broaden my presence, I need to focus on the things in life that I truly value. And, for that, I have enough!