It's official. Our house is on the market. Today Dean and I performed the traditional ritual associated with such an occasion: we went through our closet and tossed out clothes we don't wear anymore. Though I do not fancy myself a sentimentalist, I was surprised at the attachment I felt towards certain items. The value of said items of clothing is not in how well they fit me or how they fill out my wardrobe nor even how apropos they are for a certain occasion or situation. I hesitate to let a certain sweater out of my closet because I like the way it feels, even though it is misshapen and faded. I don't want to get rid of a T-shirt because it was a gift from my beloved sister, even though I have never worn it and never will (sorry, it just does not fit me). I love my old slippers with the natty fur and paint-stained soles and ripping seams just because they have been through 3 years of my life with me.
But I also realise that sometimes it is just time to move on. These items, in actuality, are just triggers - they have no value to me as such. They merely remind me of certain people or events or provide a sense of comfort. The same applies to my house. It is very comfortable, it is very spacious, it is very convenient, it is beautiful, and we have worked hard to make it so. But it is just wood and cement and brick. What makes my home valuable to me is the fact that it is where I love and laugh and live and grow and rest and work. I have spent some very pleasant moments here, but I can do that anywhere. And I look forward to doing so.
This is a candle-holder given to me by my good friend Cathy from their 25th wedding celebration. I am keeping it when I move.