Seven, perhaps? One for every day of the week?
I know that I talked only briefly about my recent palm reading. You know, it was fun, blah, blah, blah. But sometimes you get told some things, and you need awhile to sit with the idea to really get to know it and its place in your life. For example: three boys. I'm still working my way around that one.
So here's what Erin said: You like having a lot of things around you. You didn't have much when you were younger, so it's reassuring. And I nodded, (sagely, I'm sure,) accepting one part of what she said, but dismissing the rest. Because she's right. I do like having my things around me. I've been thinking a lot about abundance lately. In fact, a post about abundance has been kicking around in my mind since last winter when I wanted to knit dozens of scarves, a scarf for every need. I wanted a wall full of scarves that I could go to and pick from based on any present whim. An abundance of scarves.
I know this about me. I know it. Nothing pleases me more than rows of gleaming glasses and stemware. Fabric to choose from, yarn to choose from, I want it all. I want our wine cabinet to be fully stocked (it never is). Six dinner napkins isn't enough, we need twelve on hand. I feel this way about everything from dinner ware to aprons to deodorant. Every year we look at the wood pile and I announce, "We'll need to order wood this year." And Neel says, "Oh no, we have plenty." But it looks so bare...There's something so satisfying about a fully stocked woodpile. Surely we need more. Still, every year we have plenty.
I know this about me. This little character flaw of mine. I'm so...needy. I've always just thought it was me, my nature, who I was. I didn't relate it to anything other than messy, excessive me. Until Erin and my palm. The part of what she said that I dismissed, quite obviously, was that about not having much as a child. Ridiculous! This palm reading stuff is silly hocus pocus. Sure she gets parts right, but I can't expect everything to be right on target. Because I had a golden childhood. I never wanted for anything. Christmas and birthdays were orgies of love and gift giving. I had committed parents, generous grandparents, and I never felt a lack of love or things.
Still, Erin's comment niggled away at me. The tiniest of pebbles in my shoe. The kind that you shake out, but never see. Shoe back on, another step and there it is again. But then. Then. A small, but significant memory took roost. It slid across my mind, flimstripped across the backs of my eyes, and I thought, "Okay. that's it. Now I get it." I don't know how old I was. Junior high or high school, maybe. I remember summer. And the blue of the big rag rug my mom had bought at Pier One spread across the living room floor. We had some people over for dinner, and I must have had a friend too. I don't know how many people there were, but there weren't enough dining room chairs for us at the table. My friend and I sat in the living room. I think I said something about not wanting to eat with the grownups, but I was embarrassed. Later, back at Pier One, as my parents debated new dining room chairs, I asked how many were we planning on getting. Four. I was dismayed. Thinking, we still can't all sit at the table. And then somewhere among the paper umbrellas and inexpensive dishes, I realized, oh but we're adding four. There will be enough! How many more little moments were there like that? Little events that had nothing to do with anything? How many little things comprised to create this need in me?
The thing is, all this stuff, this abundance, weighs on me. Warring, in equal measure, is my need for reassurance in things with my need for reassurance in simplicity. Honestly, though? I want rid of it. Ultimately in my disordered mind, simplicity wins out. I have beautiful things. Lovely things. My family, who knows me well and loves me much, gives me wonderful things. The bowl from Neel, the vase from my dad, the lotus candle holders from my mom. All heavy with meaning, tipped in sentimentality... they are wonderful things. I make room for it all. Shoving other wonderful things aside for new wonderful things. I want to call a halt. But can I get rid of those extra dishes? Can I tell my loved ones, "Don't buy that thing that looks perfect for me."? Can say goodbye to books, and sheets, and dishes that have meant so much to me, buoyed me when I felt small, defined me? I don't know yet. I can start with minding what I bring in. The getting rid of part might be a bit trickier.
It's going to take some work. Even yesterday, when Callum and I were playing paddle ball, I found myself thinking, "We should get another set. They're only $13. And that way the three of us could play together or we'd have extras."
