Hello, my name is Janet and I am a consumer...

Yep, I hate to admit, but I do love my stuff. I really try not to love stuff. I see something cool, out-of-the-box different and it has my name all over it. I try my best to stop and think, where will you put it? Do you need it? Don’t you have 12 white shirts just like it? How many lamps does one need? I ask all the rational questions possible, but when I find a treasure irrational and/or unreasonable, it matters not.

So, here I am, moving for the second time in less than three years and downsizing, again. I have spent the last 3 months purging only to have filled 3, yes, I said 3, 16 foot PODS. I have a lot of stuff, but my stuff is awesome. It has taken me years to collect my treasures. My junk has a boat load of memories behind each and every find. My items are like friends and they cannot be easily discarded. Yep, I am an addict and it is time for an intervention.

1+1+1=A ridiculous 3

The last few weeks have been a needed refuge, not only for me, but for the Meabon family as well. Since mid-May, I have been in the process of downsizing, packing and purging. 

The Meabons, on the other hand, have been in the processing of renovating their home. All of this happened simultaneously, and as a result, a two week reprieve to the mountains of Colorado was not only greatly needed, but a necessity for all of us.

We took daily hikes. We went white water rafting. We rode horses. We rode a narrow gage train. We sat by a fire and wore jackets, in August. It was heaven, if only for two short weeks.

I returned to San Antonio…homeless.  My furniture, all three giant PODS full, is in storage and my very small little bungalow is under renovation.  Whaa, whaa…I know, but at almost 62 years old I have spent the last week sleeping on an air mattress, with my dog Lucy by my side. I have no furniture, no refrigerator, very few items of clothing, no food and I’m realizing that being a minimalist is a great way to live. I have no television, my house is full of paint fumes and my back yard looks like a giant mud puddle, as it has been rainy cats and dogs since last Sunday. 

I think I like this new life. I must admit that Friday morning Pod 1 of 3 will be delivered and I’m wishing I had thrown the baby out with the bathwater and begun living life as a total minimalist, having, nor needing almost nothing. 

Oh, I know that once I begin unpacking all the zillions of boxes filled with all my prize possessions I will find the need to find nooks and crannies to house my treasures. As I unwrap and unearth all of my previously stored possessions I will feel the need to find a special home for each and every item…but, until Friday and next Tuesday and the following Friday when all 3 PODS have been emptied, I think I will relish this moment when, perhaps, in another life I might have been a true minimalist.

For what it’s worth,

Janet

1Timothy 6:8 “But if we have food and clothing, with these we will be content.”

PostScript:  I wrote this piece exactly one month ago but never got around to posting it, as life became ridiculously hectic. Rereading it now, a month later, makes me chuckle. It has been an incredible journey and I am finally coming up for air. There will be a follow up post soon. Stay tuned…  

Janet Boswell reading "Her Grandmother's Hands"

Some of you asked me to post the Listen to Your Mother You Tube video when it was available. It was a fun day, but way out of my comfort zone...

For what it's worth

1+4+ a zillion moving boxes = Crazy Chaos

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder has always seemed foreign to me. I think of myself as a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants, catch-as-catch-can, willy-nilly, pell-mell type thus, the purchase of: 1) an old truck that lasted for 17 days 2) an old dog, I do so love Lucy, and 3) the owner an even older house. I’m sure the list of haphazard things I have done and most likely will do in the future will never find me in the OCD category.

In the last month, I have been greatly enlightened that I may well have mischaracterized myself. Allow me to start at the beginning. Living alone for 3 years, I never realized how set in my ways I have become. Okay, to be totally honest, maybe I did realize that I am now one of those people who has a place for everything and everything in its place.

My epiphany came about a month ago when the Meabons Four sort of moved in with me. Brooke and Jared began renovation on their home the day the contract to buy my existing home was signed. My household of 1 became a household of 5, not counting Lucy, my fish (Johnny Weissmuller) and their frenetic fish (Barbara Bush). This was the beginning of crazy chaos.

Back to the epiphany that I might be a tad OCD.  My morning routine would begin by walking into my kitchen and attempting to make one counter-clockwise sweep around the perimeter of my kitchen gathering all the items I needed to make my cup of lemon water. My goal, not to backtrack. I did this very consciously, it became sort of a game, a challenge to see how many footsteps it would take me to get a spoon from the drawer, then a cutting knife, grab the tea kettle, fill it with water (a small backtrack was necessary here), place the kettle on the stove and continue my rotation. I would grab a mug, a lemon from the refrigerator, vitamins from the pantry and be back to my starting position in as few footsteps as possible. A little OCD?  Absolutely, it simply never dawned on me that this might be peculiar behavior. 

I realized that I also have a similar getting dressed ritual, a 3:00-6:00 ritual and a bedtime ritual. Okay, I’m a lot OCD and I’m now claiming it with great aplomb.

Since May 30, my quiet little world has become pure bedlam. I can’t and don’t blame this totally on the Meabon Four, because added to this little equation are ever increasing mountains of moving boxes.

No longer can I reach for my reading glasses, knowing exactly which drawer I will find them. No longer can I open my refrigerator and find butter, a diet coke or an apple. No longer can I open my make-up drawer and know, with my eyes closed, where each item is placed. 

Nope, I now have readers strewn all over the house, on shelves, in closets, on the floor. I found a pair in Lucy’s dog bowl yesterday. I have no clue if a little Meabon did that, or in my boxing haste, I put them there. 

My refrigerator has not seen as much activity in its lifetime. Once upon a time, it was bare except for milk, cottage cheese, hummus, lemons and wine. Now, it is busting at the seams, stocked full of well, who would know because it’s so packed.  A pair of my readers might well be hiding in there.

My now messy make-up drawer, is strictly the result of a Meabon, a 5 year old little girl Meabon to be exact. Harper loves nothing more than plowing through all sorts of my facial products testing each to see how lovely she can become.

My 3:00-6:00 ritual, watching Ellen, Judge Judy and the Nightly News…gone, replaced by hide-and-go-seek-shoot, Harry’s favorite new game. Cowboy guns in hand, Harris counts (always skipping the number 13, no reason, he just does). I hide among stack of boxes, once discovered, the shooting begins until one of us dies, plopping over low lying boxes that have become rocky mountain cliffs. Not very PC at the moment, but hey, what 4 year old little boy doesn’t want to be a gun-slinging cowboy? 

I won’t even try to explain that my counter-clock wise morning routine is non-existent. Now, my mornings begin with little faces appearing at the side of my bed. Our day begins snuggled under the covers with a wild and adventurous “once upon a time, in a far away land” tales accompanied by lots of back rubs and giggling. Breakfasts consist of frog guts, snake juice and possum spit. The doldrums of continuous packing now goes hand and hand with imaginary adventures that makes our days pass all too quickly.

I've learned its best that along with my quirky OCD stuff, I’m more willy-nilly, pell-mell, loosey-goosey, because in all this crazy chaos, I am as happy as a pig in mud. I love nothing more than a bulging refrigerator, a precious boy climbing a mountain of boxes to pretend he is a knight in shining armor, or a sweet little girl dressed in her mommy’s old dance costumes sitting primly on piles of rolled up rugs because they are, after all, her majestic throne.

  

I’m sure these weeks of togetherness will all be over in the blink of an eye. Too soon, I will be in my new little house and the Meabons will be back in their newly renovated home. My strange OCD routines will more than likely grow and I will long for the crazy pandemonium of the Summer of 2016, but until then, I’m wallowing in this sweet chaos and thankful for every second.

For what it’s worth, 

Janet

Proverbs 17:6 “Grandchildren are the crown of the aged, and the pride of children is their parents.”

Early morning visitors...

Pre-dawn hours when sleep is still hovering, I find myself stirred awake by early morning visitors.

Often times, in the wee small hours of the morning I feel the gentle tug of my covers and the ever so slight pressure of weight on my mattress. I turn, open my sleep laden eyes, and find a sleepy four or five year old grandchild doing their best to hoist themselves into my slightly too tall bed to cuddle until fully awake.

I adore these early morning visits. I cherish these precious years, that I know will all too soon slip away. There is nothing more priceless than this time, drifting back to sleep and snuggling with my grandchildren. I realize these days are numbered. These days when Harper and Harris clamor into my bed, weave their gangly little legs through mine, wrap my arms around their own bodies and gradually slip back to sleep if only for a few stolen minutes more before the exuberance for the day sets in. 

I welcome and savor every second of the companionship these sweet early morning visitors bring me.

My memory holds dear the early morning hours of my last few years with Steve. I would wake earlier than him, feeling the day’s long to-do list calling me from a peaceful night’s sleep. I would awaken abruptly, feeling the need to begin scratching items off my constant and ever growing list of daily responsibilities. Attempting to gently slip out of bed, it never failed that Steve would rouse from sleep, reach out for my hand, ask me, or maybe, to be perfectly honest, plead with me to stay in bed for just a little longer. Wanting to please Steve, I would crawl back under the covers, place my head on his chest and wrap my arm across his warm firm torso. I am still able to recall the sound of his strong, steady heart beating against my ear. I can close my eyes, even now, and feel the rise and fall of his chest, as he would fall back to sleep. I can still feel his cool hand, as I would gently weave his fingers into mine. I  remember thinking…this time is rare, special, and all too soon the intimacy of these early morning visits will be a memory.

I, no we, both knew that the last four plus years of Steve’s life were a gift and we did our best to cherish these sweetest of moments. I wish I could tell you now that I have no regrets about lingering in bed with Steve in those early morning hours, but the truth be told, Steve sensed my anxiousness to get my day started. Unable to fall back asleep while wrapped in Steve’s arms, he could detect my restlessness. My list was calling me and my squirming to get the day underway could be felt beneath his desire to simply be together, quiet and still. He would finally relent, tell me to go, to start my day. I would slip from his tender grasp and anxiously set out to begin scratching things off my to-do list.

Why, oh why did I not relish the magnitude of those sweetest of moments with my precious husband? What was so pressing on that list of things I had to accomplish that I couldn’t have set them aside for a few early morning hours of this short time I had left with Steve?

I regret jumping from bed, feeling the need to grasp the handles that would enable me to circumnavigate through the demands of life once Steve was gone. Why did I not stop to pay homage to these irreplaceable days together? Why did I not understand that life’s details would wait because these early morning times could never be revisited? If only I could have a do-over, then surely I would make the most of our early morning visits.

I’m hesitant to share my next experiences with you lest you think I’m kooky, but, oh well, here goes.

A handful of times since Steve’s death, I have experienced the strangest sensation. It is in the early morning hours, those hours when sleep is still hanging heavy, with eyes closed, I feel a sag, a weight on the edge of my mattress. It is a feeling I remember as a small child when my mother would gently wake me for school in the mornings. She would quietly sit on the side of my bed and rub my back, telling me it was time to get up for school. I knew, without opening my eyes, that her presence was in my room. I sensed that she was sitting beside me on my bed. Since Steve’s death, there have been days I have felt this same weight, this slight dip of my mattress. 

It is on those rare mornings, I have sensed, through a veil of half sleep, half consciousness, the sensation of someone sitting on my bed. I feel that sinking of my mattress and I am always too quick to open my eyes, for the moment I do, I realize I’m alone. I sit up to look around my bed, thinking maybe it’s my dog, Lucy, but there is never a soul in sight. Perhaps, if I had kept my eyes closed just a bit longer, I could have my answer to this mysterious sinking feeling.

I can’t tell you who this early visitor might be, but I would like to imagine it is Steve coming to pay a brief early morning visit, to simply sit by my side so that I might linger with him a little while longer.

The verse of an old song keeps running through my mind as I write these words.

“Come and sit by my side if you love me,

  do not hasten to bid me adieu,

  but remember the Red River Valley,

  and the one that has loved you so true.”

For what it’s worth,

Janet

 Hebrews 13 :2  “Do not forget to show hospitality;  for thereby some have entertained angels without knowing it.”