I grew up knowing that I should take care of my things. Not that I always did, but my mom was all about the value of toys, clothes, etc.
Now that I am older, I wonder if that was because those things were not easily replaced.
Take care of your things, I was told.
After years of lost keys and broken things, I am happy to say I take care.
I lay out my tops that should not go in the dryer. I keep my expensive shoes in linen boxes. I have even lovingly cared for my car through 221,000 miles and counting.
My mom can stand tall. The lectures have finally paid off.
Last week, I was thinking about the people in my life and the care I take.
Both by choice and circumstance, I do not have many in my sandbox. Humans require more care than most of us realize.
A large extended family is not part of my story, nor is a group of wonderful girlfriends so far. There are only a few people with whom I am close and fewer still I would call my friend.
That word, friend, holds weight for me. I take it seriously. Friend is middle-of-the-night-call, hop-on-a-plane, listen before speaking. It’s an all-in sort of thing. A really great sweater that can not go in the dryer. Ever.
There have been times in my life I have told potential friends that they needed to choose someone else because due to the demands of my world I would not make a good one.
A strange thing to say, I know, but the truth.
As a result of my journey so far, I have more friends than expensive shoes, but far more favorite sweaters than friends.
I work at caring for the people in my circle, my tribe. I try not to take them for granted, and maybe I mostly succeed because there are so few. Because I don’t collect.
My closet is tiny, so I have this rule about my stuff. If I’m not actively using it, if it doesn’t bring me joy, I let it go.
Save, holiday decorations and pieces from my past, I don’t hang on.
Things have energy, and if that energy is not well served by me, I give it away in the hopes it will bring joy to someone else.
I added a gorgeous silk blouse to the donate bag today. I swore when I bought it I would wear it every day it was clean for the rest of my days.
I have never left the house with it on my body.
We were wrong for each other from the start, the blouse and I. It is perfect. There is nothing wrong with it, it’s just not for me.
Letting go of things, while I’m not thrilled about the money I spent, doesn’t make me sad. What I am giving up ultimately belongs somewhere else.
Keeping it, holding on because I might need it one day, deprives someone else of a perfect fit.
People and things. So different and kind of similar.
My thoughts from the laundry room. Scoot Over.