I could ask how many times? How much more? Again?  Really?

A plastic box, book size, has been sitting on the kitchen floor for a few months.  I could use the excuse of a hard winter of feeling sick as an excuse for just leaving it there but it would be just that — an excuse. It was one of those boxes filled with what needed to be moved 18 months ago, what had some sentimental value, what did not find a home in the new house and what did not really warrant storing for another day. But to give it all away or to throw it all away felt sinful.

An old blue wine bottle that sat on a window sill in Indianapolis for a bit of color among the green plants, an old green bottle buried in my Madison garden, a green and metal vaporizer at least 70 years old that nursed David and then my girls through childhood colds, Chinese fans brought back from China and hung up or used for costumes, paperweights gifted to us, a tiny memory box with an old picture of Danny Kaye and one birthday candle, a small clock with a glued-on plaque commemorating David’s move from Deputy Clerk of Indiana to Clerk of the Wisconsin Supreme Court, Vietnamese cymbals and a gong, plastic glasses in good shape, an apple peeler, a thick woven Bolivian sash and a tiny Bolivian whistle, incense burners and many pieces of pottery made by Julia.  

Julia and I went through the box last night. One of the round pottery bowls with top contained many, many anime buttons and she claimed that.  I could not let go of a little dinosaur laying on its stomach with its feet up. And we talked about many of the pieces—stories of the old vaporizer, the China fans, the gong.  And David’s clock. But neither of us wanted to use or display any of it.

And in our own version of Marie Kondo’s questions of what no longer sparks joy, we let go of most of what was in the box.  Some I posted to our Buy Nothing town page in Facebook, some went in to bag for VVA’s next pick up, a few things went straight into the garbage.

Some of all of this junk—the vaporizer, the clock, Julia’s pottery—still held pieces of my heart, my past, my hoped-for future, but none of it was more than a handful of stories.  And I told Julia those.  And that is enough.

Quick catch up:

Julia did a great job at the end of the year Berklee recital.  She played a cello solo, played cello as part of a trio, and played her ukulele and sang a verse of Roar, as part of the ukulele ensemble.  She even enjoyed herself.  And I am almost ready to stop being anxious when she plays.  (And for the record, I remember the exact concert when I stopped being anxious when Cheshire was playing her instruments as a kid.  Different ages but same mother feelings!).

The recital was on Mother’s Day, and as much as I dislike that day, my good friend, Robin, had sent truly lovely flowers and my VNM jollied me out of my ambivalence even though we could not visit Cheshire et al., because they were sick and I needed a nap after Julia’s recital. I wanted to walk along a beach and eat something sinful. And so, we went to Lynn, walked on the beach, watched some surfers (prompting memories of Bondi Beach because of what Lynn Beach was not) and ate in a fish place overlooking the water.  And I could not be grumpy.

Being sick for what feel like forever this time, I missed weeks of choir and HILR classes, but resolved to take better care of myself.  I mean, my self care is not that bad but . . . once again everything is a challenge, everything is new and a few things are possible.

I was lucky to make it to the recital and then last week, I was able to perform in the end of the year Black Box short plays at HILR.  I still need naps at times and one ear is still blocked up, but I planted containers and window boxes after a plant buying spree last weekend, and looking forward to more intensive gardening and a weekend retreat in New Hampshire for Memorial Day weekend.