My brain struggles to keep it all straight, so a little notebook has become my friend in recent weeks. We’ve made some major decisions in the past month that will impact our lives for years. Timing seems to be a little off, but I believe there is a reason for everything. It sometimes takes years to figure it out. Sometimes, we never do.
We are in the process of becoming hybrid snowbirds when my husband retires. We’re not sure when that will happen, but it will be within two years, maximum. His company doesn’t want him to retire, and he still enjoys his work, so why mess with that? Except his job is in Pittsburgh, and we’ve just sold our home here and bought a new log cabin in Murphy, North Carolina. Our home in Tallahassee has tenants in it until April.
Interesting times ahead. I feel as if I’m juggling balls in the air as I make arrangements for the moves, buying a home, selling a home, and giving away as much as possible. I’m packing for the move into a condo here in Pittsburgh temporarily; I’m separating our lives into Florida and North Carolina.
As hectic and chaotic as life is right now, I’m enjoying parts of it. Once I started on the task of going through all of our stuff, I began to find a rhythm for what to throw away or recycle, what to donate to our local Vietnam Veterans group, and what to keep. I find it fascinating to discover that many things from my past no longer hold any attraction–at least not enough to want to fill yet another box. So the award trophies and copies of everything I’ve had published meet either the recycle bin or the garbage bags. I’m recycling the article I wrote about kindergartners dressing up as mice and singing “Three Blind Mice” during their end of the year program at the local elementary school. No, I don’t think I need that for my portfolio. I don’t need the feature article about the scary man who raised hairless dogs in a trailer. But maybe I’ll hang onto the series I did on drugs in the community where I lived. I won an award for that and for columns I wrote. Perhaps I should keep those, too.
I found my baby book yesterday, hidden way back on a high shelf in my office. I thought I’d lost that in my last move. But there it was with little tidbits about my early life. I was child No. 5, so Mommy didn’t write too much about little Patti, except one tidbit I treasure: “By twenty months, Patti had a very large vocabulary.” I wonder what words my not-quite-two-year-old brain processed.
I read my diary from seventh grade yesterday. I admit after reading it, that it’s a wonder I made it this far as a writer. “Today I went to school. I came home and did chores. I talked to Brent on the phone for hours.” Dull and not worth saving anymore. When I become famous, I’d hate for anyone to use that in my archives.
I found yearbooks and cards from my teaching years, also not worth keeping. “You’re my favorite English teacher ever, and I hope I make an ‘A’ in your class this semester.” Those comments made me laugh, right before I placed them in the recycle pile.
Photos from my years as a Girl Scout leader and the girls in my troop, who are now young women in their thirties in professional careers and raising their own children. Those I keep because my own daughter and her friends who were like my daughters are chronicled in those photos.
So many phases of a life, but I don’t feel old. Yet I’ve lived nine or more lives it seems.
I’m keeping just enough to remind me of those good times. The rest I’m willing to let go because I’m moving into a new phase. As I do my juggling act, I’m trying to keep things in perspective. Every day brings new tasks and challenges, but it’s now that counts so I stay present while visiting the past for a minute here and there.
It’s strange to be moving right now as the garden begins to blossom and bring us bounty. My husband couldn’t help himself. Despite selling the house, he put in a garden as a gift to the buyers. More on that later, I promise.
To help with your gardening and abundant produce, check out our book From Seed to Table filled with gardening tips and recipes.