a pretty purge?

I had a thought when I was attempting to clean off the kitchen table. Cleaning meaning that I shuffle the mounds of junk around and around until I can't take it anymore and throw it away, dismantle it, or put it in a proper place. Anywhoo... the thought came as I was applying a damp cloth to the surface of the yellow table and noticed all the paint stains and gouges across the surface. It reminded me of a couple I once knew who placed a large cover over their dining table to prevent it from damage. I had realized over the years hat I had never actually seen the actual table, just this board game board that covered the entire surface. That thought led me to think of many other situations where people own things that are pretty and in many instance quite gorgeous (or in my case scrapbook paper I can't bring myself to cut into. So much scrapbook paper). but we never get to see them or enjoy them because they are too pretty . It's like when Grandma gave you a doll you couldn't play with or having china that sits in a cabinet and is never used because it might break.

So I'm thinking of these beautiful, expensive things that fill our pretty lives and I am wondering if we're not living less than because of it all. I don't really have any precious furniture or dishes or objects...really. I mean I thought I did but once those items became no more I realized that what was more important were the memories I carried of those items. What I mean by less involves the intensity we feel for keeping our objects perfect. If it comes naturally I suppose that's just what it is but what if our perfection or our striving for perfection is knitting up a little ball of stress in our bodies. What if our focus could be better used elsewhere? What if our health could be happier if we lived with less pretty pretty. I'm not saying we shouldn't have pretty things but maybe we could reflect on the reasons why these things are so important.

When I was a little girl my mother had a collection of blown eggs that she and my siblings (and later me) created. My mother's eggs were of ladies in fancy hats...very 1960s, very fancy-pants and full of kitsch. After my mother died there was only one fancy lady egg left and I carefully placed it on a shelf in my bedroom which showcased some favorite things. A few years later, the mister accidentally dropped the egg and it cracked much-much worse than Humpty Dumpty. My heart sank, the mister's did as well and I picked up the pieces with a sad sigh and thought...there goes that. Mister was horrified and I felt bad for him. I gave him  squeeze and promised him that it would be okay. And it was. Sure, I miss seeing that small reminder of my childhood but I still REMEMBER it and focusing too much on the past prevents us from creating our futures.

I'm jumping around a bit here trying to work through my thoughts but what I'm thinking of most is that I have cool stuff. I do. People love to wander the tiny casa and gawk at the stuff so artfully arranged. I like to walk around the casa and gawk at the stuff so artfully arranged. To what end?  This stuff which I like and which I feed off of..all those compliments make think I've got something special going on...is kinda bringing me down. Dragging me down  and defining me and I don't want to be defined by jars of vintage doll parts or old books in happy stacks with even older bottles topping them off. I look at this as I am typing and think how pretty it all is but it's just stuff. Stuff that I am attached to simply because it is pretty..or old...or cool. Is there a hipster factor to having this stuff? Am I trying too hard?

I have an almost finished post I wrote a year ago about the things we choose to fill our homes and wondering how dependent they are based on current trends. I have my fair share of wooden crates, old cameras and mason jars floating about and those things I find are authentic in my life (I should publish that post already).  Actually every bit of vintage goodness in this space is authentic but at some point this authenticity is too confining for me. For me and the mister. The mister doesn't have stuff. He doesn't. Everything he has has a meaning and a connection and I want to aspire to that. I do.

So I'm wiping down the table and for a moment I wish there weren't rings from cups and splatters of paint and nicks and scratches all over. Just for a moment, no more than that,  because those bits and pieces remind me of all the things I have made at that table, all the cups of coffee with friends, all the meals and conversations with the mister. All those moments that define me more than the stuffity-stuff that fills the tiny casa. I wipe away the the glitter and and crumbs and smile at the possibilities that await on this new found space (I am never going to have an always clean table)...perhaps I'll make a new friend who will drink coffee at this table, or play a game of exquisite corpse or maybe even cut into that scrapbook paper. Life is too short to not use the good dishes, to not eat cake, to not cut into the darn scrapbook paper, to not use the vintage fabric you have been carrying around for a decade. Life is too short to be bogged down by objects...even pretty objects. I used to think my stuff, my mother's stuff or my grandmother's stuff would be passed down to my children. It is with true sadness it won't be and so now I think it is time to reflect and remove and move on. The stuff does not define me, the future needs some shaping and well...my stuff is keeping me tied down and at once making me smile yet making me melancholy. The clutter, no matter how pretty has a tendency to clutter the corners of the casa and the the corners of my mind. Moving on is a good thing...it's scary as all get out sure, but I think it is time for something...else. Something just as pretty...beautiful even...something new.

I'm sure even with a whittling down there will be clutter. Dusty-musty vintage clutter. But I'm thinking even tiny steps are a good thing and I'm taking a deep breath and am going to tiptoe to the future. But first, it's time for cake and maybe a smidge of brave crafting. Where did I put that scrapbook paper?