A Bird in the Kitchen
Plus: wanna buy my books?
On Sunday I had a (lukewarm, not very successful) moving sale. I am moving across the country in nine days and trying to sell the vast majority of my stuff. I think I’ll probably end up giving most of it away, which is okay. I do believe in reciprocity. I do believe new and different things will come back to me.
I do believe I have too much stuff. Or, rather, I spent money carelessly because I grew up with very little money.
I’m not going to get into this now— this money thing. This managing money and being a writer thing. But I will eventually.
What I’ll say is this: my stuff means so little to me. I imagine what that money could have done, had I not turned it into physical things that I gathered around me. I do not need very nice things. I do not need a lot. Maybe some good clothes. Lotion that works well. Solid shoes. Soft sheets. Beyond that? Idk. But I bought a lot of things while living in Seattle (over two and a half years). I did not need most of those things. In the end, they also didn’t mean much to me.
Moving forward I am asking myself this: what do I need and want to surround myself with and experience?
On Saturday I came in from my moving sale. My whole body hurt. I hadn’t realized how much work it was, and I’m only ten weeks out from back surgery. My cat, Edna, greeted me. The whole thing scared her; she’s a skittish cat. I followed her into the kitchen and began doing some dishes.
Something was fluttering. It took me a moment to realize there was a bird with me, inside. Its tiny claws clung to my mother’s scarf, which I have used as a kind of decorative curtain ever since she died.
There wasn’t really a way for the bird to have flown into the kitchen.
There was a small window, opened a crack.
It felt like something significant.
I painted that windowsill.
I carried that scarf with me everywhere, and hung it everywhere, and it always reminds me of my mother’s sense of style.
It has meant home to me wherever I go.
I opened the window wide and stepped back. The bird fluttered and looped and made its way to the other windowsill. It perched on the edge, it beak half-open.
I said, “it’s okay, you can go.”
And it went.
What does it mean for us to continually let go? To understand that our ties to the people we love are more profound than anything physical can describe or express? That we imbue the world with meaning, and without the meanings we project upon it, it is simply reality?
So, I have a lot of books.
If you want to buy any of these books for $5, let me know. $8 total with media mail. If you buy more than one book, the price for shipping stays the same ($3). So buy more. My loss is your gain?
Some of the books are basically brand new! Help support my move. All the books will be mailed on July 24th.
You can also become a paying subscriber! The Writer will be much more active once I land in Tallahassee in August!