Relationship Remnant

The Panasonic receiver.

Music players have come a long way in my lifetime.

The earliest 'stereo' I can remember is a record player. A small, suitcase-looking unit with a handy plastic handle. I think it was painted blue and white and made of some type of press board. I'm not sure if it was a really high grade of card board or a really low quality wood product. Within the sturdy case was a turn table and it's necessary components (arm, needle, that silvery peg that holds the record in place and a volume knob). The speakers were built into the sides of the faux-something case. This was the height of music machines at the time. Nothing like listening to the Beach Boys Little Deuce Coupe in mono. (Considering the nature of this blog, it probably won't surprise you to know I still have that album.)

Then we upgraded to a unit that was still quite portable but more cumbersome. Kind of a table top machine, black with speakers that hung off the sides of the turn table or (and here was the sales pitch clincher for my dad) detached from the body of the record player and could be placed a couple of feet away for that true 'immediate vicinity' sound that everyone longed for. (Dolby had nothing on us.) Another amazing feature of this newfangled music device was that you could load three or four albums on the tall, silver peg in the middle and secure them with some type of arm apparatus. They hung suspended above the album playing, then dropped down one at a time after the end of the proceeding record. It was a marvel of modern technology. I'm still not sure how they did that.

My grandparents had the granddaddy of stereos. This was a piece of furniture. Wood, for the most part. A large rectangular cabinet with two sliding doors on the top surface. The internal layout varied from one brand to the next but in my experience, if you slid the two doors to one side looking down upon it you could see the turn table, a radio receiver dial and if you have the deluxe Cadillac style an eight-track tape player. When you slide the doors to the other side, you find storage space for as many Lawrence Welk and off-name polka albums as you could possibly imagine. Well, okay probably twenty or so. But too much of a good thing and all that. Again the speakers were built into the unit but now we're talking about "Ah-one, and ah-two and ah" in STEREO-baby! If you were the recycling type and you stumbled upon one of these music monstrosities today, you could probably gut it and use it as a platform coffin. (You know, like platform shoes?)

These all-in-one units were kind of high end in my elite circle. Mostly people I knew owned a record player but had a little transistor radio somewhere else in the house. (For the "rest of the story.") Eight track players were mostly in your vehicle if you were lucky enough to have one. (Tape player, not vehicle.)

It was on my fourteenth birthday that experienced a stereo with four speakers: one speaker hanging in the four corners of a room. I was told to listen to how cool that was. I think Bachman-Turner Overdrive was taking care of business. The other three people in the room seemed quite impressed with the quad aspect of this set up. I personally didn't notice much difference.

Then it became popular to buy your stereo components individually. A receiver, a turn table, a tape player, speakers and possibly even an amplifier and an equalizer. Unlike the four-way stereo sound at Rick's house, this impressed me. Compared to our family record player with the speakers hinged to the side, this was very cool and very grown up and quite rebellious. It was true music appreciation.

All through high school and just after, I longed for this type of stereo system. I wanted to be an all-grown-up music listener. But even if I had gone into my local stereo store, I would not have had a clue what to ask first. To those slick sales people, I would have looked like the sick and weak gazelle left behind by my herd, and at the mercy of some Wild Kingdom photographer who would helicopter in a hungry alligator from Sea World to tear the flesh from my bones so he could get it all on film. Man-enforced Law of the Jungle money shot.

I went off to college after the cliche taking of 'one year off.' That first year in the dorms, I saw many examples of the cool-kid stereo set ups. Guys were especially prone to this music configuration. Big Bose speakers in all corners, the bigger the better as size matters in such cases. Everything is a competition with this gender. There's always a yard stick laying around.

I fell in love in college. It was a temporary condition but in the end I was granted custody of the cool stereo system. I was given two medium sized Bose speakers, a turn table and a Panasonic receiver. It was a relatively amicable end; Kevin gave me his stereo before he left me to move to Alaska. He was lightening his load of personal possessions. (Wow, do you feel that deja vu swirling around me right now?)

That was 26 years ago. The speakers were the first to go. I kept them for quite a few years but the spongy foam material behind which hid the tweeters and woofers was pretty quick to disintegrate. The speakers which still sounded fine but looked like hell, headed for a thrift store.

A cassette tape deck that I had added to the stereo ensemble also didn't last long. It was bottom of the line quality and it seems you get what you pay for where home electronics are concerned.

Left were the turn table and the receiver. The turn tables sits today on a large stack of albums on the bottom shelf of my leviathan of an entertainment center. It's job is safe, as far as I know. The receiver has been out in storage; I haven't used it in years. Probably twelve or fifteen. It works fine. Or it did do, the last time it was plugged in and put to the test. The thread I've kept hanging onto with this inanimate object is the person from which it came. Kevin.

I have great affection for this past relationship. That brief time in my life. Plus I have some regrets which make it very difficult to come to peace in reflection. I've hung onto this item for years because Kevin gave it to me. I have not been able to let this go. As I've thought about this specific instance of worldly possession clinging, it occurs to me that I've kept it out of guilt. Because Kevin gave me his heart and I failed to take good care of it, I feel some how I can make up for it by taking care of his stereo. Crazy thinking when you drag it out of the dark corner of my mind and look at it in the sunlight.

I took the receiver to the Salvation Army this week. Someone with a good eye for such things will be shopping there soon and be able to make use of it. Not that it stands up against today's technology but as a piece of good quality nostalgia. Or as the mother of all paper weights.

The Elephant in the Blog

Okay, so a post or two ago I mentioned that I was ‘away’ and hadn’t been able to put any energy into my mission, my personal quest of simplifying and clearing out my life.

I genuinely thought the distraction would fill my time for a few days but that I would be right back to purge and release ‘no longer useful’ items. Not exactly.

Aaron, the man with whom I’ve spent almost all of my free for a good long time now, the most amazing man I've ever known, my love, decided to leave. To go for a long, long walk. Across the continent, no less. I will not go into all the details of how I feel about this development emotionally, spiritually. At least not here. But I will speak to the practical impact it’s had upon my life recently.

I haven’t said this specifically here, but it is my hope to get rid of one third of all my stuff. 1/3. Doesn’t this sound significant? Symbolic? Substantial? (My ‘double secret probation’ hope was that I would actually be able to part with half. 50% of everything I own. But I’m afraid to say it aloud.) I would be so impressed with myself if I could pull off a third.

An aside to this 1/3 thing:
I mentioned to my supervisor at work that I was aiming for this lofty goal: one third, she seemed impressed with my ambition. She said she thinks the more things we accumulate, the more unhappy we seem to become.

“Exactly,” I said.

(This was a refreshing reaction as most people just stare, waiting for me to get to some non-existent punch line.)

Then she looked at me and said that the problem she would have if she were attempting such a goal would be the counting.

“The counting?” I asked.

“Yes, I’d have to count everything first to make sure I was actually throwing out a third.”

Oh no. OH NO! What has she done? This hadn’t occurred to me. I’m very methodical with such tasks. Very linear and retentive. Of course, counting. I'll have to count! How can I ever know if was really one third or not? This was a devastating development. I should have shoved my fingers into my ears and started humming Sweet Georgia Brown as soon as I could tell where her point was headed. But once she’d said it, and I’d heard it, it could not be unheard. It was out there now.

Just before the onset of the panic attack that was headed straight for me, I consulted with my many personalities and made an executive decision: Ball Park.

I am going to approximate this one third. I will simply be happy, ecstatic even, to be in the same ball park as one third. I might have to ‘round up’ but this is okay.

You think I jest about the counting, but at other times in my life, I would have reveled in the process of counting before hand, to assure myself of the satisfaction of a true one third. Counting how many books I have, how many wine glasses I have. I'd have needed to hire student help to assist with the counting and the inevitable spread sheets.

But no: I'm going to Ball Park! Turns out I can ‘let go’ of more than just some old wind chimes.

Enough aside for now....

One key dimension of Aaron’s Great Adventure was getting rid of almost all of his personal possessions. This turned out to be fascinating. And relevant to my own process. In some ways, watching him throw out things so easily was perplexing, but then at other times I found it inspiring. And others still, nauseating and sad.

He hand-picked a few important items: bass guitar, photographs, some books, Peanuts pillowcase (‘Important’ is relative, it seems), all his music CDs, the Cabin Boy DVD, old Taco Bell sauce packets (not really).

These were all stored securely, awaiting his safe return. Pretty much everything else, however, went. Some he gave to family and loved ones. Appropriately. Some to Goodwill. Some garbage. All furniture, all household items (kitchen, bathroom, bedroom), plants, clothes, electronics. TV, bed, lamps, dishes, clock, towels and more.

It was the most interesting, strange process to be involved in. In his possession, to take with him, he kept just enough to stuff into a good sized back pack. Maybe forty pounds. He went from a large one bedroom apartment with all the essential accoutrement implied, down to a high-end REI backpack. This process took over a week, fitting in a day here or there for going to work.

Because of my emotional investment in the situation and my very strong feelings about his leaving at all, it was INTENSE. I cried some. I marveled often. I wished he would come to my house and return the favor, but there wasn’t time before his departure date. Plus I would not have had anything close to his ability to release and let go. Had the situation been reversed, I would have been groveling, begging with my arms wrapped around his ankles pleading with him to please, please, PLEASE let me keep my purple socks, that are actually two different colors of purple and itch like crazy so I never actually wear them. “I love those socks!” “Those were the socks I wore to drill team camp in Ellensburg when we did the routine to Freak Out.” “I need those socks. Don’t do it.” So it would never, ever would have worked had the situations been reversed.

This is a guess on my part but I’d say, in the end Aaron probably got rid of a solid 90 % of everything he owed. (Making my ‘grandiose’ 1/3 seem pretty paltry. And don’t think we didn’t have a nice little talk about that!) Besides feeling that he was ‘showing off’ his ninja ‘letting go’ abilities, I was in shock. Impressed, awestruck, speechless.

Aside from how I feel about his leaving, I’m hoping to parlay the energy and inspiration I feel from helping him with this process into a snowball effect for my own cause. I hope. We’ll see. He started his walking trip today. Which means I will have more concentrated time. Time that may seem ‘tainted’ to a certain extent, but I’m counting on myself to get past this.

We’ll see, indeed.

Today was quite satisfying in all purging respects.
May 3, 2010 ~ The back seat of my car was filled with bags and boxes. Maybe playing some catch up. I needed the assistance of the two guys at the Salvation Army drop station to help me unload. Clothes, stationary, candlesticks, snow pants, books, kid’s stickers & craft supplies, sofa pillows. A hideous blue lamp from the late sixties, shower rod, wall clock, gift ribbon and wrap and cards. This stuff was all easy. There was no hesitation in my hands when shifting, weeding any of these things. But my Panasonic Receiver? That was a different story. This, we'll need to talk about. More tomorrow.

"Barbie is excused from band class..."

I didn't say 'from gym class' because I never really minded gym class.

Except that one day in 7th grade when I almost got beat up for calling an eighth grade girl a bitch because she wouldn't throw the basketball back into the game from the bleachers, where the Stoners Chicks were sitting and mocking the girls who just wanted to pass gym class. Actually I wasn't brave enough to say it to her face, but instead mouthed the word after she'd thrown the ball back and I turned away from her. Apparently one of her Stoner Chick friends was working to pass gym class as well that day, witnessed what I said and felt a moral obligation to tell. There's some baggage I could clear out, huh?

Anyway, the reason I'm here today for approximately 12.7 seconds or as fast as I can type this is: I need you to give me a pass.

I am tied and twisted up in something else that is precluding me from my mission of material mastery. At least for a little while longer.

Frankly, I'm pissed that this blog and its impetus has been on the back burner for almost two weeks now but it has. And I'm not sure who to blame.

Sometimes stuff happens.....and piles up until you explode. At this point I welcome the explosion.

So Much Better Than Dragons

About Barbie: in regards to My Less is Bliss Journey and the blog it’s prompted, here are some FAQs (Frequently Asked Questions). Well, to be fair that would be NAQs (Never Asked Questions) yet even so, here they are.


My name is Barbie and I live in the Pacific Northwest. (The only reasons these two AQs are relevant to Less is Bliss is because as I’m possession-purging and soul-cleansing, I will be faced with Barbie items (Barbie™ as in Barbie’s Malibu Beach House and Pink Convertible.) and the pervasive mold, algae and moss that grow on possessions neglected for very long in the Puget Sound area.

Other than that, I don’t think any other book jacket details are necessary right now.


Aside from 'stats,' I might feel the need to reveal the following...

I have an abnormally strong grip. I can clench like nobody’s business. At some point along the line I thought it would be a good and appropriate life strategy to hang onto everything in my immediate vicinity with the Barbie Death Grip. (Not the ™ Barbie, but the 5 feet tall Barbie typing here.)

I hang onto everything:

• belongings,
• nostalgia,
• ancient wounds,
• pre-school crafts,
• locks of hair,
• perceived social slights,
• occupational atrocities,
• every single photograph I’ve ever taken,
• toxic relationships
• and broken small appliances that will cost more to be repaired than replaced.

I have not the good fortune to possess the natural ability of easily ‘letting go.’
(Even typing the words feels like a breeze of clean air.)

Given this important personal confession, you might be tempted to look the other way. But here are a couple of other important bits to counter the images you could be drawing up in your head of 'what her house must look like...."

• I am not a hoarder. My house is tidy and clean, on most days. Even my closets and drawers. I’m a high-functioning organizer. More on my 3 x 5 card system in another post.
  


• I do not have that much stuff. You could walk into my house and you would not think that I have a problem. The house I live in is 1600 square feet. Not large. One story, three bedrooms, one and ¾ bath. It’s not that there is so much, but that I’m clutching for dear life to the moderate amount I do own.
  


• I am not a binge buyer. In fact, for the most part, I do not like shopping. I’ll go months without buying a single article of clothing or some chotskie household object. It’s just that it’s so hard to let go of what I already have.

What I’m dealing with here is not an urgent, intervention-precipitating situation. A person can live their entire life in surroundings such as mine and maybe never even sense the disquiet and unrest involved with ‘hanging on’ to items that no longer serve them. Us. You. Me.


But I can’t. I cannot live this way. I am so acutely aware of the peace of which I’m robbing myself that I have to do something. Something drastic. Something now. (Maybe I’m like the Princess and the Pea. Yeah, that’s it. Maybe I belong to the lineage of the Royal House of Riddance.)



If what I suspect is true, that the ‘thing’ standing between me and my best life are my things, (‘things’ being physical, occupational, emotional, social, recreational, even metaphysical things) then what lies just ahead, on the other side of my ‘clutter,’ will be nothing short of AMAZING. We might not even recognize me after I'm done.



I need to keep this fact in mind each day for when I get bogged down. I need it on a flash card, forearm tattoo or note pinned to my shirt. "Beyond here there be magic."



April 16 & 17, 2010 ~ Away from home for a few days, no purging, weeding or ridding to declare.

Good News, Bad News, Better News

Today I gave away five wind chimes.

I’m keeping four. Four. Does four wind chimes sound excessive......?

I had nine wind chimes up along the west and north eves of my house. It’s one of my favorite sounds: the wind and the chimes mingling, singing in twelve-part harmony. But nine was WAY too many.

I started off with one, years ago. Then my family, knowing how much I love them, added to the collection in varying forms of quality and kitsch. This morning, I gathered them up and spread them across the dining room table. I cleaned and polished until they were as shining as they could be after so many years. I repaired the stained glass wind catcher (the name of that piece that swings at the bottom of a wind chime to catch the wind) that had fallen off of my favorite one. I threw out one set that was too weather worn to keep or give away. I packed up four of the least melodic into the Thrift Store bag.

The four best ones are going back up later today or tomorrow. Four wind chimes. Does that sound like too many? It must or I wouldn’t be answering the question. But I selected the Final Four very carefully and systematically. For their durability, their eye-appeal, their voice and range. I have one in the deeper tenor register. I have two typical middle-of-the-road toned chimes but that are so pretty and well-made: beautiful pewter and stained glass. The last is a delicate light-hearted chime that sounds like Tinkerbell flitting just outside my window.

Sound reasoning, yes? Solid argument? Four wind chimes? Not so bad, right?

(Okay, PAY ATTENTION.... this is where I could use some audience participation. I am going to need your help in this area. When you hear me justifying the items I want to keep, call me out, scold me. If I am feeling the need to justify anything to an unseen, perhaps non-existent blog reading audience, this is a very bad sign and I’m kidding myself. Let’s call it Clutter Denial. The items I keep and I am at genuine peace with, require no justification of any sort, to you or anyone else. The compulsion to make excuses will not occur when the decision is true and good for me. I will simply own my decision with the right things and all the ‘talk’ is a spin job to rationalize keeping the crap. Please point this out to me when you see it. You even have my permission to laugh as you point. There may be a pop quiz on this point later.)

So after writing here, I went back. Selected the most colorful one of the four 'keepers' and am sending it to my kids to hang outside my new grandson's nursery window. In the end, I'm keeping three of nine. This feels much better. I got rid of 2/3's of my wind chimes today.

April 15, 2010 ~ Besides the Great Wind Chime Massacre and other things, today I chucked out: 2 Zip Lock bags full of beads and old jewelry, Easter decorations, more candles and a dusty dark red vase.

Barbie Swings for the Fence

I’m not sure how to begin any type of introduction here. An introduction came to me in my dreams last night but it was of the statistical, Playboy ‘bio’ variety. My name is. I’m this old. I enjoy walking here and reading that. Odd dream.


I’ve had the needling suspicion for a long time that there is secret magic in clearing space. Physical space, emotional space, head space, domestic space, closet space, silverware drawer space.

In the struggle to find my ‘right’ life, my true purpose, I’ve read. I’ve written. I’ve confessed and divulged. Self-help books, journals, companions and therapists. I’ve explored them all. Nothing took. Nothing clicked. I knew truth when I read it. I saw empowerment when I’d write of it. All lofty life enriching, higher enlightenment, greater self type stuff. It was all up there with the cumulus clouds that resemble the opening shot of The Simpsons.

I knew it was possible. That it existed. I still know. Inner peace. Certainty of my soul’s wisdom. Breath. My spirit at rest. Finally. Yet it remained just beyond my reach.

My heart recognizes my truth when I see it. I’ve read Wayne Dyer, Louise Hay, Martha Beck, Cheryl Richardson, Ekhart Tolle. Okay, I didn’t always 'read' read them. Sometimes I’d just check them out at the library and stack them in a pile next to my bed. A couple I did read cover to cover: Finding Your Own North Star. You Can Heal Your Life. Finding Your Passion Or maybe I watched the DVD, listened to the audio book.

But as I ‘read’ so to speak, one of the many little voices in my head would say, “You already know this. What are you reading this for? You are wasting your time.” It felt like reviewing fractions at the beginning of the school year.

It wasn’t “Oh, I’m so smart,” in that know-it-all, I don’t need this crap sort of way. But more of a “Stop treading water,” sort of way. “Get on with it,” my little voices began to gang up on me. But I didn’t know how. What do I do? The Secret and other law of attraction material had me wondering if I could just want it, think of it, visualize it enough that 'it' would simply appear.

‘It’ being my perfect life. Published author, little cottage by the sea, solitary domesticity. Waking up each day with the sole purpose of following my bliss.

So I buckled down: affirmations, writing scenes of my perfect life as if it were already true, meditations, vision ‘boards’ of one type or another. All good. All valuable. Yet my life wouldn’t budge. My reality, my day-to-day remained firm.

Please do not misinterpret the struggle I’m describing here as criticism of the authors or material I’ve mentioned above. I am a fan, a true believer in them all. Well, almost all. I’m already sold on the concepts. Each premise. I get it. I believe I create my own life. I am already convinced. Like I said, my heart knows. My soul resonates when it finds truth. I can actually feel a physical change in my body chemistry when this happens.

But even so, something was off. Reading this stuff was like memorizing the sales brochure for a vacuum system I’d already purchased. I get it, this is the way to go, but what now? How do I proceed? I bought the Kirby, why isn’t my carpet clean?

Not always but often in the books and DVDs I was absorbing, or sleeping right next to, there would be a reference to cleaning, purging, organizing, ridding, simplifying. And at these times, an especially clear tone rang within me. “Truth! Truth! Truth,” it rang.

For years, I’ve read inspired and inspiring, uplifting truth. Eventually, I came to notice a pattern: the passages specifically addressing physical clutter, ‘spoke’ to me more profoundly than the surrounding words of wisdom.

I had a sense there was something secret hidden here. One of those inner voices would say, “Yes, there will be unexpected magic on the other side of going through and tossing most of your material possessions.” But she was kind of a soft spoken voice and there were numerous, much more insistent voices saying that it couldn’t be that simple. That the physical act of cleaning out your home, your life is too easy. This could not be the secret. ‘Barbie’s Secret.’ “Reaching your perfect life has got to be more complicated, more difficult than just clearing out possessions. Making space. Sorting through your stuff.” (Bossy voice!) No, cleaning out a drawer is not lofty or metaphysical enough. Could attaining my perfect life come through the manual labor of cleaning out? It couldn't possibly be the mystical, transcendental answer I've been looking for. Could it?

I’m about to find out.

I’m giving that soft spoken voice the floor. The floor, the closets, the drawers, my email inbox. All of these and more. Everything I own is at risk. Starting today.


April 14, 2010: Among many other things ~ the red, beaded clock, Colin's old Speedo goggles from the swim lessons he hated, an dusty tub of bird seed ( seed now scattered under the fir tree outside my window, tub in recycle), James Herriot book of animal stories

'Less is Bliss' begins

Today is the first day on my way to 'less.'

This truth gives me chills.

Let's see how it goes. I can't wait.