Travelin' Light

Getting rid of everything I own has become something of a periodic ritual with me. Tomorrow, we host the Great Estate Sale of 2006, in which we attempt to profit from the disposal of all that which cannot be carried with us into the next phase of life. The contents of our entire house will be on sale.

Relax! We're not dying, we're just moving!

People think it's weird to sell all your stuff instead of paying to cart it around the country. They think it's weird to sell it instead of storing it in a community of small shelters, constructed just for reserving stuff people don't need, but want to call their own. Really, people think it's weird and (slightly unfortunate) to move at all, or to want to abandon your posessions. Yesterday, Mrs. Grayson called me a gypsy for wanting to move to new places all the time and not own anything. "Don't you want stuff to call your own?" she cajoled. And the answer is yes, of course I want things to call my own: my experiences, my life, an emerald ring or two, my cat, some memories. The ideas of wealth and ownership are myths, really. The truth is, when I get rid of stuff, I feel bouyant and free, like a boat suddenly clipped free of the anchor against which it has been straining. And as soon as I'm slipping along some unexpected blue current, I can see that the anchor was really just a giant bag of trash.

Maybe I am a gypsy. I thought about it while I considered the "early bird" shopper perched on our back steps, picking over the contents of my jewelry box. I thought about it when I priced the items in my "Parisisan-style" bedroom. I thought about it as I nestled into my faux fur coat after my fourth glass of wine tonight at the Ohio Club. And I decided: I am what I am. Call it what you will.

Take my stuff, please!