Hey there, sorry I haven't been around for awhile. I'd ask you in for tea, but unpacking has been very slow going. Frankly, I am quite tempted to just take the boxes directly to the recycling centre - Do Not Unpack, Do Not Pass Go, Do Not Collect $200. It's either that or a big yard sale. We'll throw in a tour of the Dome for anyone who spends over twenty bucks.
Moving always brings me uncomfortably face-to-face with my stuff. No matter how much I try to downsize, there I am, trying to find places to put crap (which was considered, before the move, to be valuable art supplies). Do I seriously think I will get back into silkscreening after 25 years away from it? Would my life be changed in any way by getting rid of this box of squeegees, or that carton of doll-making supplies, or this veritable crate of small bits of cloth that might be useful some day?
At this point I would happily join some sort of benign cult that only allowed me to own a bowl, a spoon, and a muumuu. I could then spend the rest of my life clearing out the mental vaults, which, believe me, are far more cluttered and cobwebbed than any house I have ever lived in.
Blissful as that sounds, I fear that I am not quite ready to let go. But I do realize that sometime in every move, there is a point where I must confront the gap between who I imagine I might be, and reality. There may be a few tears, but this time, for sure, I will accept the limitations of both my [storage] space and my [days left on this earthly realm x number of projects hoped to accomplish] time.
And I will whittle away at the stuff until I am left with one bowl, one spoon, and maybe just one tiny basket of sewing materials that can easily be hidden under the muumuu.