JOY SPARKED

Packing a home to move forces a person to face oneself.

A few years ago, Marie Kondo caused a sensation talking about decluttering, saying to discard an item if it doesn’t “spark joy.” Over the years I toyed with the idea of decluttering, but everything I saw and touched sparked joy.

When I made the decision to sell the house, I promised myself to eliminate as much as possible. Room by room, I filled box after box. I recycled a large amount of paper that consisted of saved newspaper and magazine articles, recipes that sounded good but were never made, lists of things: to do, to read, to see, to write about. It was difficult eliminating books. I saved the ones I loved the best, and distributed the rest in little neighborhood libraries from which I’d borrowed books in the past.

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I consigned some clothing and donated the rest. The clothes I wore to garden and clean the house that were worn to rags, were given to Ridwell, a recycling company. They take what other recyclers won’t and distribute them to innovative industries that make useful things, such as insulation from shredded old clothing. Still, I have a wardrobe filled with clothes I just can’t give away: winter coats, some rather fancy, dating back to the eighties. I have an ivory and gold brocade suit I bought in December, 1963. It’s gorgeous. I look at how tiny it is and remember that when I wore it, I thought I was fat.

There’s a box of shawls and scarves of all shapes and sizes: wool, silk, rayon, cotton, in various colors, some with bold prints. The first shawl I bought is crimson red, printed with bright flowers. It has a long fringe. It’s frayed in many places from the many years I wore it. When I could no longer wear it, I found other uses for it. It is carefully folded and placed with other treasures. It is too much a part of my life to give away.

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Another box is filled with gloves. The gloves range from heavy duty winter gloves, to leather, velvet, wrist length, elbow length, and one pair of arm length black satin gloves that I wore with a strapless, purple satin dress. There are also a pair of white cotton gloves I bought for my granddaughter to wear when we went to see Broadway shows at Keller Auditorium.

I love gloves. They’ve been a part of my life as long as I can remember. I went to an all-girls parochial school, St. Angela Hall Academy for Young Ladies. As stated in the title, part of our education was to become ladies. Every Thursday we dressed with white bows in our hair and wore white gloves. We learned manners, how to introduce someone or a group of people, how to accept a dance when a gentleman asked. We also learned how to waltz. One week we danced the girl part, the next week the boy part.

In the fifth grade the school admitted one boy. His name was John. He was in my class. Every week the nuns would tell him who to ask for a dance, each dance with a different girl. He learned how to put his hand on our waists, arm’s distance. Every other week I had one dance with John. In class he sat one row up, one row over. Sometimes he’d turn and look at me. He’d pretend he didn’t see me looking at him, and I’d pretend I didn’t notice.

Today I took down the art from the walls. My art is eclectic, much of it from my creative friends: paintings, pen and ink drawings, and collages. There are pictures cut out of magazines and beautiful cards that I framed. One inspired a poem that I wrote for my granddaughter when she was four years old; card and poem are framed together. There is a painting of the moon hovering over a rocky shoreline that I bought at an art fair in Corte Madera, California nearly fifty years ago. It called to me from a distance, as if it was made for me.

There’s a beautifully framed poster of Georgia O’Keeffe’s White Calico Flower that I bought at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art after viewing a special Georgia O’Keeffe exhibit in March, 1989. It was a magical day.  A brief, but intense, storm had blown through southern California leaving the skies so clear that they were ultra-blue. I’d never seen Los Angeles so lovely, nor have I since. The exhibit was breathtaking, and best of all, it was a day shared with my beloved friend, Jacquie. Whenever I look at that picture, a vivid memory returns of walking the darkened halls of LACMA, O’Keeffe’s lighted art, unique, stunning, and captivating, the astonishing color of the sky, and the warm friendship of an extraordinary person.

Everything has a memory, but some have no physical counterpart to pack away, such as the way the light fills the house. I faux painted the dining room with my dear friend, Shauna, layering and feathering paint of pale yellow with a light, then deeper orange. It was a day of joyful camaraderie. When the afternoon sun hangs low in the western sky in spring and autumn, it shines through the living room window and the dining room glows.

The early morning sun rising in the east touches the crystals hanging in the bathroom window, creating shards of rainbows that shine on my bedroom walls.

Some things not only represent memories, they contain energy. The last time my youngest grandchildren visited, they’d stand at the living room window to look out at the day, hands and faces pressed to the window. In the morning light, their little hand prints glow. It’s as if they are here with me.

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I’ve given many tokens of parts of my life away, shared some with friends and family, and put the rest in storage. I tuck these memories in my heart and leave the house to a lovely young couple to create their own memories. In a few days I venture out on a loosely planned journey to meet whatever surprises life may have in store for me.

I hope you will follow this blog for the Free and Pure Adventures of the Write Mind of a Left Hander.

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