I’m at a writing residency, struggling with what to write next—blog post, another poem? Just now I walked over to the kitchen, where we go to pick up our box lunches. I usually come back to my studio to eat so as not to be distracted from what I’m working on by the desire to chat, as there are always fellows (that’s what we are called here) there, but today I sat down and ate my tofu salad with A and C, badly needing the break of human connection.
New people are constantly arriving and it’s hard to get everyone’s names remembered. I asked them if they knew of a certain P, whom another friend had asked me to connect with and hug for her. Amazingly, as soon as they described her to me, P walked in.
This total stranger and I shared a huge embrace and immediately began a long conversation, about residencies we’d attended, our mutual friend, what we were both writing or not writing, writers we knew, dancing, the necessity of finding a ride to the local thrift shop.
That’s what it’s like here.
I told her that I’d been writing a blog for the last four years and was thinking about a way to put some of the pieces together in a collection, but that the prospect of doing that was so overwhelming that I was avoiding it.
I told her how much I admired the writing of Abigail Thomas (Still Life at Eight, Safekeeping) and emulated her ability to mix tragedy and grief with humor, short pieces and long pieces, subjects of all kinds in her essay collections. I loved the wonderful off-handedness and exuberant feel of her writing, like she’d just dashed it all off in minutes.
I wanted to write like that.
As P and I talked, the half-finished piece I’d labored over that morning was in the back of my mind, along with the knowledge that it wasn’t working, felt stilted. I’d been doing what I say writers shouldn’t do, pushing the piece in a certain direction instead of letting its trajectory surprise me. I’d wanted to use a particular title and picture, was trying to make all my ideas fit into the framework they’d offered.
And it was just too serious.
I was tired of writing about my aging, all the friends who have died in the last few months, how terrifying the world is right now.
That’s why I’d needed that kitchen break.
P and I began talking about the process of packing up to come here. I told her I almost walked out of the house leaving my computer, books, pads and notes behind in my study, so busy had I been shoving clothing, toiletries, pills, pillow. coffeepot, coffee, bottles of wine, boots and shoes into the car. (In honesty, it was my husband who carefully manipulated the piles and bags I’d scattered all over our mudroom into an intricate puzzle in the back of our Volvo).
We talked about stuff—how much more we had, or I had, now that I had the wherewithal to buy what I wanted, and the space in which to store it--instead of the long-ago days when there was no money to buy much of anything, and if there was, it would have been for the kids. And how it had been such a simpler time, without the mountain of available options we have now; you had to go to an actual store to buy a sweater or a pair of sneakers instead of typing your choices into a computer.
“If you wrote a piece called ‘Stuff,” I would read it right away,” said P, laughing.
She told me her apartment was cluttered with books on how to get rid of clutter, which set us both to more laughter.
I told her how I spent too much time just managing my stuff. Washing, cleaning, ironing, folding, recycling it to friends and resale shops, ordering and returning, printing labels, finding packaging and tape. And that’s just for clothes and shoes. Then there are the piles of files and books heaped in my study, and the mementoes from all our travels scattered throughout our home.
P said she’d carefully chosen what to bring, but she was already feeling the need to go online and order more things.
“Me too!” I said, knowing I’d found a kindred spirit. “Since I’ve been here, I’ve bought and returned a coat and a pair of hiking boots, ordered a new pillow and a pair of overalls like J’s.”
“We’ve got to go to the thrift shop in Amherst, “P said excitedly. “They have such great quality stuff. You will love it. We just need to find someone with a car to take us there.”
It will be a fun diversion, I think, even though I’m guessing we will probably buy more things we don’t need and end up bringing them to thrift shops at home or giving it away.
Stuff.
My husband—probably because he’s a man—has no comprehension of the pure enjoyment of the chase—scrolling through endless choices on the internet, or in a store, rummaging through racks of schlock to find the perfect __________ (shirt, jacket, shawl, tea kettle--fill in the blank). And, as I point out to him, it’s easy for him to be a minimalist because he doesn’t need wrinkle creams, silver bracelets, particular items of lady underwear, yoga clothes, or outfits for different occasions.
But he and I both are excellent at accumulating piles of paper, years of greeting cards, old bills, cookbooks, kitchen gadgets, garden supplies, funny socks, baseball caps, canvas bags of all shapes and sizes.
And more. So much more.
Yikes. When I get home in a few weeks, it may be time to assess all this stuff of ours, of mine, what to keep, what to give away, what to throw out. I do love my things, even the old blue sweater or the silky striped shirt from Zara that I’ve never even worn once, the coat I bought in Taos, all my silver jewelry.
But I promise myself to go through the baskets of old letters, thousands (yes thousands) of books, files of articles, poems and recipes, photo albums and greeting cards, a big plastic garbage bag next to me, ready to sift and toss.
After all, I’m almost 82. It’s time.
Wish me luck.
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There is a space in my Wisdom House weekend writing retreat April 12-14 https://www.wisdomhouse.org/program-calendar/womenswritingretreat-
Thanks, everyone, for reading these posts, and please know you can take yourself off the list anytime if you prefer not to get them.