Today I’m sitting surrounded by the chaos that accompanies a move and having my first detachment cry. This is normal. I’m not falling apart. It is a natural mourning reaction to the loss of a home. I have done this many times now. While some aspects of moving get easier with practice, some will never change. The emotional aspect of displacement never does. That leads to pondering on the difficulty for people displaced long-term - the homeless, refugees, those dealing with the destruction of homes due to natural disasters. My displacement is by choice. Theirs is a matter of excruciating survival.
I don’t particularly enjoy moving. I like nesting. I enjoy making a home, and I think I’m rather proficient at making it work. I have that to look forward to when we get to our destination. Carving out a space to feel at peace is good for me. What’s hard is putting that process on hold. It means boxing up or getting rid of everything I use to anchor myself in this place. My art supplies get packed away. My favourite dishes are carefully wrapped and stowed for transport (if I have room for them). I find myself wandering rooms touching things and saying goodbye in thanks for bringing sanctuary. People keep asking if I need help cleaning or packing, and I want to explain why this is a solitary activity, but at the moment I can’t articulate it well enough. Right now I’m stealing time to capture that feeling in words. Perhaps if I vocalize it, I will know how to better respond to offers of help.
Taking down the photos and paintings is a milestone moment. Once that happens the house loses personality and is simply a place. This event is always my “rip-off-the-bandaid” day. Once it happens there is an urgency to pack and purge, dust and discard, and gift or sell. I reached that day last week, and now I am in the daily personal battle of transition.
I read a book titled, The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning by Margareta Magnusson recently. It was a funny little book written in a more anecdotal than advisory style. I wanted to read it because apparently my life often requires big moves. My family relocated from England to Canada in the early 70s. I have personally moved 11 times since then and number 12 is coming up soon. I know intimately what moving means. Margareta Magnusson says that “Death cleaning is certainly not just about things. If it was, it would not be so difficult.” She explains that death cleaning isn’t really about dying, but rather simplifying what we leave behind. She writes about pruning back our attachments to things without transferring them to someone else’s shoulders. That concept resonates deeply with me. Moving so much makes me very aware that things are just things.
I also liked Marie Kondo’s The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying. Her perspective on clutter advocates retaining only items that bring us joy. Because our sources of happiness change over time, it’s only natural that our attachment to those things changes as well. She advises giving ourselves permission to say goodbye when objects shift away from bringing us joy. We make that break possible by saying thank you to each item before letting it go. I have done this in many of our past moves, so I understand her philosophy as well as Magnusson’s. But for me, it’s about the life expectancy of temporal blessings.
The Lord delights to bless us. But needs change, and all physical objects deteriorate with time. The car that was a timely rescue for a growing family eventually wears out. The perfect couch for napping goes threadbare and sags. The incredibly comfortable jeans that fit just right either become too small/too big or wear out with multiple washings. Children outgrow toys. None of it is designed to last forever. Even jobs that are a perfect fit become uncomfortable in time. They are just tools and gifts with a finite lifespan. For me, the secret is to pay attention to the role they play in my life and choose to let go while I am still thankful or let them bring someone else some joy.
But our brains attach memories and emotions to objects. It’s hard learning that memory doesn’t have to end with the breaking of physical attachment. I am getting better at it. Mourning and gratitude is a healthy part of the process. It’s not about specific objects but the volume of their collected reality. When the boxes and piles of things to relinquish reach critical mass, I cry to remain objective. I am pruning in preparation for an abundant future harvest that allows for something better.
In a New Era article, “The Currant Bush”, back in January of 1973, Hugh B. Brown wrote, “remember, “God is the gardener here. He knows what he wants you to be.” Submit yourselves to his will. Be worthy of his blessings, and you will get his blessings.” So at this moment, my tears mean I am again a currant bush that needs some trimming to become more.
I don’t particularly enjoy moving. I like nesting. I enjoy making a home, and I think I’m rather proficient at making it work. I have that to look forward to when we get to our destination. Carving out a space to feel at peace is good for me. What’s hard is putting that process on hold. It means boxing up or getting rid of everything I use to anchor myself in this place. My art supplies get packed away. My favourite dishes are carefully wrapped and stowed for transport (if I have room for them). I find myself wandering rooms touching things and saying goodbye in thanks for bringing sanctuary. People keep asking if I need help cleaning or packing, and I want to explain why this is a solitary activity, but at the moment I can’t articulate it well enough. Right now I’m stealing time to capture that feeling in words. Perhaps if I vocalize it, I will know how to better respond to offers of help.
Taking down the photos and paintings is a milestone moment. Once that happens the house loses personality and is simply a place. This event is always my “rip-off-the-bandaid” day. Once it happens there is an urgency to pack and purge, dust and discard, and gift or sell. I reached that day last week, and now I am in the daily personal battle of transition.
I read a book titled, The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning by Margareta Magnusson recently. It was a funny little book written in a more anecdotal than advisory style. I wanted to read it because apparently my life often requires big moves. My family relocated from England to Canada in the early 70s. I have personally moved 11 times since then and number 12 is coming up soon. I know intimately what moving means. Margareta Magnusson says that “Death cleaning is certainly not just about things. If it was, it would not be so difficult.” She explains that death cleaning isn’t really about dying, but rather simplifying what we leave behind. She writes about pruning back our attachments to things without transferring them to someone else’s shoulders. That concept resonates deeply with me. Moving so much makes me very aware that things are just things.
I also liked Marie Kondo’s The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying. Her perspective on clutter advocates retaining only items that bring us joy. Because our sources of happiness change over time, it’s only natural that our attachment to those things changes as well. She advises giving ourselves permission to say goodbye when objects shift away from bringing us joy. We make that break possible by saying thank you to each item before letting it go. I have done this in many of our past moves, so I understand her philosophy as well as Magnusson’s. But for me, it’s about the life expectancy of temporal blessings.
The Lord delights to bless us. But needs change, and all physical objects deteriorate with time. The car that was a timely rescue for a growing family eventually wears out. The perfect couch for napping goes threadbare and sags. The incredibly comfortable jeans that fit just right either become too small/too big or wear out with multiple washings. Children outgrow toys. None of it is designed to last forever. Even jobs that are a perfect fit become uncomfortable in time. They are just tools and gifts with a finite lifespan. For me, the secret is to pay attention to the role they play in my life and choose to let go while I am still thankful or let them bring someone else some joy.
But our brains attach memories and emotions to objects. It’s hard learning that memory doesn’t have to end with the breaking of physical attachment. I am getting better at it. Mourning and gratitude is a healthy part of the process. It’s not about specific objects but the volume of their collected reality. When the boxes and piles of things to relinquish reach critical mass, I cry to remain objective. I am pruning in preparation for an abundant future harvest that allows for something better.
In a New Era article, “The Currant Bush”, back in January of 1973, Hugh B. Brown wrote, “remember, “God is the gardener here. He knows what he wants you to be.” Submit yourselves to his will. Be worthy of his blessings, and you will get his blessings.” So at this moment, my tears mean I am again a currant bush that needs some trimming to become more.
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