I make lists. Many a night when I cannot sleep, I make lists of everything. Usually in the “Reminders” app on my IPhone or Ipad. I have a list of things I need at the pharmacy, things I want to tell or ask my friend Andrea, furniture and things that belong to my landlord Aoua that I want to purchase – if she will sell them to me. I list ideas for blogs, authors (of books) to try, things to sell (on eBay, leboncoin.fr, Angloinfo.com, Nice Buy-and-Sell), things I MUST have in my next condo. I list random thoughts I like, things to do, things to do TODAY, idea for blogs, ideas for other writings, former friends, former addresses. Ideas for blogs…
What Determines Worth?
One Hand Clapping
The Normalization of Extremism
…and, nobody knows what to do about it.
You won’t know you’re ok until you get there.
Small People
Ear of the King
My Take on Practicing Law
Secrecy is security and security is victory.
Count on change.
My Purchases at the Le Negresco Hotel in 1997, when I vowed to return to Nice.
Numbers – at any age.
The Click
The French and their Stairs
Baseball Caps
Lemonade from Lemons
Timelines
Objective vs Subjective Camera
Needless to say, there are many mornings when I wake up exhausted. But, it helps me get through long nights without Steve. I miss him very much. I want him back. This minute. At least I am beginning to do things we loved to do together. I avoided a lot of them for six months. Today, after my physical therapy session (knee problems) and lunch, I walked from the Port to the Flower Market. First, I had lunch at Delibo – one of our favorite restaurants. Then, I walked the pathway we frequently walked together, taking pictures of everything. I am posting a few of my favorites. My way of making lemonade.
Making plans is fun. Steve and I made plans – things we would do after we got to France. For eleven months, we did a lot of them. Then, life happened. Not in the Plan. Once I could think, I started trying to plan on my own. What can I do? I am trained to practice law, act, sell real estate, teach, write…. Yet, I cannot work in France. At least, not yet. Oh, that reminds me, I need to learn French. Hmmm. Yes, true. I must learn French. First of all, LEARN FRENCH! Once I can communicate effectively – and get a work permit, I can figure out ways to make money (I am thinking out loud, you realize, avoiding all talk of political and economical situations in the world). Then, I can afford to travel. Right now, I can barely afford myself, much less travel. Not in the Plan.
Now, while I ponder the Plan, life is happening, as we speak. I have begun teaching English, swapping time with French acquaintances and friends over coffee and emails. It is amazing how many people here want to learn English. It is not that I have met that many people. I haven’t. I can be trying to talk to someone while waiting to get my hair cut (Caroline), or meet an owner of an Airbnb who wants to work with me via email, improving her English (Severine), or meet a stranger who is helping me buy stamps at the post office and teaches me the word “timbre” on the spot (U.K. woman who visits her mother in Nice. She told me her name and gave me her phone number, but I misplaced it).
Caroline was getting her hair colored. While chatting with her (she spoke pretty good English), I learned that she has a new baby girl (adorable) and lives with her German husband (adorable) in Spain and visits her parents (lovely French people) in Nice. I met them all – at the Hair Salon!! She introduced me to her father and mother and husband and baby (who came by that shop, for some reason ???), asking me if I would be willing to meet her father (Alain) for coffee so he could improve his English and help me with my French. In other words, swap conversations (his French for my English). So far, I have met Alain twice for coffee on Mondays. We chat in English and very broken French (moi) for an hour or so. We are scheduled to meet again, tomorrow.
I met Severine and her husband when Steve and I stayed in their condo in Paris last Christmas. Lovely couple with two children. I met her husband, mother, and daughter at that time. They were all going to her maman’s for Christmas while Steve and I stayed in their condo in the Marais District. When Steve and I arrived, she and her husband spent an hour or so, explaining things to us and giving us tips about favorite restaurants and buses and trains and….. you name it! I liked them both a lot. Steve did, too. This Christmas, Severine sent me an email, wishing Steve and me Happy New Year. I responded, telling her about Steve. We chatted back and forth, and she offered to help me with French via email. So, we have been emailing back and forth. She corrects what I write; I correct her English. At one point, she asked if I would teach her daughter English. I said yes. At this point, if it works out as planned, their daughter Aline (15 years old) will spend a week with me this summer in Nice. I will teach her English during the day. I am looking forward to that.
The nice lady in the post office offered to teach me French. She visits from the U.K. frequently because her mother, who lives in my neighborhood in Nice, is not well. She wrote her name and phone number on a piece of paper. People here are friendly and nice to me. A lady in my building adores me and keeps talking at length in the parking lot, the elevator, the lobby, the entrance, wherever. I have no idea what she is saying. Plus, the pronunciation is weird, and the speed is too fast. I smile a lot. That helps.
Thus, I need to review teaching English. I used to teach. Early in my life, I was a college professor. Right after grad school, I was hired by what was then called Brenau College, to teach speech and drama. After three years, I took a year’s leave of absence in 1964, to have my third child – Blake. That year, I accepted a position at a branch of the University of Georgia – Gainesville Junior College, to be Chairman of the Division of Humanities – a Ph.D. position. Classes were first held in the fall of 1966. For two years, I taught classes in speech, drama, and English (creative writing and grammar).
During the summer of 1968, I took a leave of absence to obtain my Ph.D. at UCLA, in California. Prior to leaving, I applied for and received a lifetime California Standard Teaching Credential to teach Drama in Junior College. That was to be my fallback position, even though I never used it. While establishing residency, I started acting professionally. I stayed in California.
Most of these things came out of left field (as Steve would say). Creating forks in the road that were not in a plan. Which way to go? One, or the other? I chose to stay in California and pursue professional acting. I gave up educational theatre. What would have happened if I had obtained my Ph.D. in theatre history and returned to Gainesville, Georgia? I have often wondered. Now, many years later (51, to be exact), I am returning to something I started in the first place – something I loved and cherished. I loved teaching. I got excited when a motivated student appeared in one of my classes. Most students were not motivated. I did not have the energy to get an unmotivated student excited about learning. That was an art form and not easy to do. If I tried and succeeded, a new group was around the corner. Ugh.
Well, here I go, again, back to basics. That begs the question: how should I frame this? What makes a good teacher? Patience? Persistence? Encouragement? Thinking back, I remember Miss Bessie (2nd grade, strict, impatient). Miss Dent (3rd grade, strict, impatient). Jane Hulsey (GHS, strict, mean, bossy). Miss Turner (GHS, unfair, vindictive). Dr. Popovich (UGA, strict, vindictive). I can still see these people in my mind’s eye. I can remember specific situations with each one. Negative experiences, not positive. Needless to say, I don’t want to be “strict”, “impatient, mean, or bossy. My best teachers, the people who made a profound impact on my life, weren’t in that profession: Patricia McLaine, Hadidjah Lamas, Ira Progoff. Profound, patient, loving, and healing.
Forget making plans. Or, at least, have plans as a back-up position. Plans have your back. Life happens. That said, I need to make a plan as to how to teach English to a French person. Hmmm. Teaching English grammar to an unmotivated English-speaking person is one thing; teaching English to a French native is another. All tips are appreciated.
These photos are more for me than you. Nice memories that help clarify my thinking.
It’s DONE!! I just submitted eleven photographs to the International Photography Contest, sponsored by Les Alliances françaises de Nice, Rio, and Venice. At first, I was told – one photo. That changed to ten. I submitted eleven. We’ll see what happens. For those who just tuned in, let me explain.
The Carnival of Nice, one of the largest carnivals in the world and the highlight of the French Riviera in winter, took place this year from the 11th of February until the 25th – 15 days. There were seventeen tanks, some with a height of twenty meters that told the story of the King of Energy. Activities took place on three Saturdays, two Tuesdays, two Wednesdays, and one Sunday. On Saturdays, Wednesdays, and Sunday, there was a Battle of Flowers. On the first two Saturday and Tuesday nights, they lit up Corso Carnavalesque. On the third Saturday night, they incinerated the King. Even though I did not go to the activities, I felt the excitement. Thus, when asked by my school – Les Alliances françaises de Nice – to enter its international photo contest, I said yes.
The contest started February 11 and will end March 10. Participants must send one or several photos made during the Carnival to the Alliances françaises of their city, which will then select ten winning photos to present to an International Jury. The International Jury will select the three winning photos. Winners will be announced on May 19. Judges are looking for 1) relevance to the contest subject; 2) the choice and the originality of the subject and the point of view adopted; 3) the quality of photos – framing, originality, treatment of light, aesthetic considerations; and 4) compliance with the technical specifications mentioned above. First prize is 1500 euros; second is 700 euros; and third is 300 euros.
I submitted eleven photographs, posted below. Thank you very much to the friends who helped me with the selections – especially to Carole at Maxwelton. Wish me luck!
Almost every day, something happens that stops me dead in my tracks. A reality check. Something unexpected. Ranging in severity. Causing an about-face. And now, more than ever, external events are bombarding all of us from every direction. Reality checks – 24/7. I have experienced reality checks since I was two-years-old. At least, that is the first one that I can remember. I had a pink blanket with white reindeer that I loved. It went with me everywhere. It was my friend. At the age of two, or three, Mother and Daddy decided the blanket had to go. It disappeared. Suddenly. Without warning. I frantically looked for it. Mother said it was gone. I was too old for a blanket. They burned it. Ouch. Loss of blanket. Loss of friend. Loss of trust. Loss and pain. Reality Check.
After that, I had reality check after reality check. In high school. In college. External events that came out of nowhere. So, internally, I created safe spots inside my head. If I heard something or saw something I did not like, or if something painful happened, I went to a safe spot. One favorite spot was a room, a library, in a brick house on the edge of the woods. The walls were covered with books in built-in bookcases. An armchair and footstool were in front of a warm fire. My Steinway piano was there. And, my cat. I was safe. I also had a secret garden, filled with roses. Externally, I was rolling with the punches, determined to keep going despite road blocks. Internally, I found a way to feel safe from people who were saying one thing while doing another. Safe spots.
It bothered me. Why aren’t people telling the truth? Calling it like they see it? Were non-truths more acceptable? I studied Carl Jung and his analytical psychology. I worked with renown therapists. I went to psychics and studied metaphysics. I attended the Erhard Seminars Training, known as “EST”, saying “got it” a lot. I found respite in acting. There, it was necessary to separate the obvious – let’s call it “truth” or “facts” of what happens – from what the character intends – called it “subtext”. Sometimes I was successful; sometimes not. Once, I was doing a scene from “Lunchtime” with Mary Grover for Lee Strasberg at The Actors Studio. Mary and I were both excited to be performing for Lee. After the scene, Lee asked me what was my character doing in the scene. I went into some convoluted explanation, trying to explain what the character was thinking and feeling. He asked me the same question several times, not satisfied with my answers. At some point, he stopped me, looked at me in disgust, and yelled – She is COOKING THE TURKEY!!!”. Cook the damn turkey. Reality Check.
At that point, it became clear that I was over-analyzing too much. Sigmund Freud, who was famous for interpreting symbols with special emphasis on the imagery in dreams, said, “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.” Now, this may not seem like much to you, but to me, that was the beginning of my law career. That is when I made the decision to spend my life learning the importance of facts and what to do with them. In law school, the fact pattern was essential. In law practice, the fact pattern determined the possible arguments. In client consultations, the fact pattern was the client’s reality check. Priceless.
Early in my law practice, I found a safe spot – walking mornings, photographing roses, and posting them on social media. That made me happy. Helped me cope with reality checks. Google defines “reality check” as an occasion on which one is reminded of the state of things in the real world. Urban dictionary says “reality check” is used to bring a person back into the life of those around them, sometimes used to smash hopes and dreams. Merriam Webster defines “reality check” as something which shows you that the real situation is different from what you believed or hoped. People around the globe are experiencing reality checks 24/7. In my world, that calls for safe spots. Roses on social media. Just know – if this helps you, it is helping me more. Safe Spots.
Please excuse the rambling. Just thinking out loud.
Breaking News: I have entered an International Photography Contest. I must choose ONE photo to submit. I need your help. Let me explain.
The 133rd Carnival of Nice, one of the largest carnivals in the world and the highlight of the French Riviera in winter, takes place this year from the 11th of February until the 25th – ROI DE L’ENERGIE (King of Energy). There will be seventeen tanks, some with a height of twenty meters that tell the story of the King of Energy. It is a great moment of celebration. Activities take place on three Saturdays (11th, 18th, and 25th), two Tuesdays (14th, 21st), two Wednesdays (15th, 22nd), and one Sunday (19th). Why those days? I don’t know. At 2:30 p.m. on Saturdays, Wednesdays, and Sunday, there is a Battle of Flowers. Don’t ask. On the first two Saturdays and Tuesdays, they light up Corso Carnavalesque at 9:00 p.m. and on the third Saturday night at 9:00 p.m., they incinerate the King. Eww. Steve and I did not go last year, and I will not go this year. Too many people. But, you cannot escape the excitement in the air. Nice is electric with energy. So, when I was asked by my school – Les Alliances françaises de Nice – if I wanted to enter its international photo contest, “Three Cities, Three Carnivals” with Les Alliances françaises de Venice and Rio, I said yes.
The contest takes place between February 11 and March 10, 2017. Participants from each of Les Alliances françaises may send one photo (TIFF or JPEG, 300 dpi) made during the Carnival to the Alliances françaises of their city, which will then select ten winning photos to present to an International Jury. The International Jury will select the three winning photos. Winners will be announced on May 19, 2017. Judges are looking for 1) relevance to the contest subject; 2) the choice and the originality of the subject and the point of view adopted; 3) the quality of photos – framing, originality, treatment of light, aesthetic considerations; and 4) compliance with the technical specifications mentioned above. First prize is 1500 euros; second is 700 euros; and third is 300 euros. That works.
I have started taking pictures. My submission must make commentary without my attending crowd gatherings. Today, I am posting my first round of pictures that I took in town on Tuesday. I have numbered each photo. Select your favorite in each posting and post the photo number in the commentary. These are not terrific, but it is a start. I will continue taking pictures and posting photos until the deadline in March. Thanks.
It all started with an Old-Fashioned 1940’s Oak School Desk-Chair-would never think of refinishing. At age five, I needed a Desk-Chair to conduct my “private business”. So, Mother and Daddy got a chair like this for me so I could go to work. They placed it in the hall because Mother would not allow it in any room – too ugly. I thought it was great! I put my spiral notebooks on the shelf underneath. I had a shoe box for my pencils and erasers. I had a ruler. I don’t remember all my projects at my desk. But, I worked every day. Many days, I wrote notes to my best friend Janice who lived next door. It would be something I had created with pencil, ruler, and paper. I would fold it, and place it in our private hiding place in the side yard. Give our private signal – a “hoot-hoot-hoo-hooooooo” – like a bird of some sort. That would go on for hours, with notes going back and forth.
My favorite game was “Go to the Head of the Class”. Others were playing dolls. Not me. I was working and memorizing answers to the questions in the little book from Go to the Head of the Class. Over the years in grammar school, I loved my school desk. I had a place for my pencil. I had an ink well. And, I could store my books and tablets under the lid.
In high school, and college, I designated “office space” in my bedroom – wherever I was. When I got married. I insisted on having office space in our home. It usually was a corner in a room somewhere – usually the living room and NOT to be used by anyone else. I can still remember my office in our house in Athens, Georgia. Darrell and I were attending the University. He was in law school. I was working on my BFA in Speech and Drama, then MA in Drama. I had a card table set up in a corner of the living room. On my “desk” was a typewriter, a mug with pencils in it, and space for my coffee. I wrote my Master’s thesis on that card table – “The Origins of George Bernard Shaw’s Life Force Philosophy”. Sound familiar?
I started working as soon as I graduated from college – a college professor. Then, Chairman of the Division of Humanities. That was my job when I took a year’s leave of absence to get my PhD at UCLA. When I started acting, Vic Tayback, a friend, told me acting is a business – approach it that way or get out. OK. Selling real estate and doing fixers was my back-up career. It was a natural that I started law school at age 59. Made sense to me. I could practice law as long as I could think.
When Steve and I decided to move to France, things changed. Doctor’s orders. Well, the doctor didn’t tell me to move to France, but he did say that I needed to decrease activities that were causing too-high blood pressure. I had cases and clients. I said the “r” word. I knew I was not retiring. I was planning to do something else. All went well for eleven months.
Now – it is time to go back to work. Practice law in California, live in Nice, France. I have ideas of how to do that. Time to implement them. Working is a state of mind. There are “jobs”, and there is working. I love to work. Why? Who knows? But, this is not new news. Ask my mother. Ask Daddy. Ask my sisters. Ask Janice. Ask Steve. Ask my kids. Working for me started before school and will last until death. I am convinced of it.
“You cannot swim for new horizons until you have courage to lose sight of the shore.” ― William Faulkner
That quote speaks to me. Maybe because Faulkner said it. Losing sight of the shore is scary. I read Facebook and feel guilty I’m not marching in the streets with a sign of some sort. My co-workers, my family, my friends are carrying the torch without me. But for now, I’m simply trying to get back up on the horse. Steve died five months ago, leaving a big hole in my heart. It knocked the wind out of my sails. I am having to practice living.
My French classes were great. I completed A1.1 of the Intensive, and will do Al.2 later. Wonderful being back in class. However, a wicked flu – la grippe – is going around Nice. I caught it. No problem. Gave me time to re-group, get rest, and look at a couple of condos. My owner/landlord is selling this place and wants me out at the end of my lease (September 30, 2017). Ugh.
SO, this afternoon, at 4:00 p.m., my owner’s real estate agents are coming to see this condo. She listed it with a trendy real estate company, located at the Port of Nice. She wants to show it for eight months! What!!!! I decided to cooperate. I want to know whether it is going to sell sooner or later. Maybe the new owner wants a lovely, reliable tenant who takes care of the property. You never know. Many people buy properties in Nice as investments. And, a side note to my lawyer friend Fran, French real estate law is on the side of the tenant!! That works. The plot thickens.
SO, this morning, I decided to get up, put on a business suit, put the suit jacket on the back of my home office chair, and go to work. Practice living. OK, so work is writing this blog, it is a start. I paid my California Bar dues. I am a member of CAALA (Consumer Attorneys Association of Los Angeles – Empowering Plaintiff Attorneys to Achieve Justice). I can work in the U.S. from here. U.S. clients. No French clients. But, U.S. paying clients – yes. From my U.S. home office that happens to be in France. I have several computers (2 of mine and Steve’s Mac), an online U.S. fax number, two printers (my lazer Brother MFC and Steve’s HP inkjet), a scanner, a phone. Paper. Pens. Staples. Paper clips. Why not? I have an Entertainment Law client in the States and am considering signing a Real Estate Law client who wants to purchase a home in France. Besides, I like to work. Always have. I guess I am still holding on to the shore. Or, maybe these are new horizons with the same shore. Or maybe this quote doesn’t apply.
Energy remains a challenge. I am hoping that is temporary. Or will get better with time and exercise and healthy eating and a better attitude. The Featured Image of this post was Steve’s favorite photo. He called it my “$1,000-a-night shot”. It was taken ten years ago – after we were married – by my favorite photographer of all time – Joan Lauren (http://www.joanlauren.com/). The art work was done by my friend Larry Mccrea, a wonderful photographer.
This blog just rambles. What can I say – I need to ramble. We are reinventing the wheel over here, and the unknown is becoming known. I am learning. You are learning. The world is learning. John C. Maxwell said, “The unsuccessful person is burdened by learning, and prefers to walk down familiar paths. Their distaste for learning stunts their growth and limits their influence.” Well, I prefer to walk down familiar paths, yet I don’t consider myself unsuccessful. I learn. My quest for learning has been lifelong – often to my detriment. And, I am still going strong. Problem is – I am on overload over here and don’t know what to learn first. There is too much, all at one time. When all else fails, get sick. Works like a charm and easy to do. People wheezing and coughing on the bus. Sick students coming to class, infecting the rest of us.
This time, it is different. On a large scale, the world is a mess like I have never experienced. I have experienced chaos, but never like this. News, Breaking News, Israel, Palestine, England, France, the United States, China, Belgium, Germany, Russia – not necessarily in that order. Libya is taking its place in line. Bulletins everywhere – Facebook, Twitter, my cell, my email. On a small scale, I am a mess. I have experienced this kind of a mess, but in my own country. Not France. I must move; I must show up at class; I must learn French; I must get stronger – work out, eat right, buy groceries, do taxes, downsize. Daddy always said, “Rough seas make good sailors”. “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.” Ugh.
I signed up for this “intensive” French class for one month. I made it through two weeks and two days before getting sick. Overwhelmed. I don’t have the time to be overwhelmed. None of us do. The woods are on fire.
To my attorney colleagues, to my friends and family, to strangers who don’t know me, please know that my heart is in the right place. I was a women’s libber before the ‘60’s – shocking friends and family. OK, even though I did it in my own quiet [safe] way, I did it. And to those I have offended, I apologize if I haven’t been very “big” about accepting the views of those who disagree with me. As my kids used to say, “whatever”.
So – for now, I will get back up on the horse/the bicycle – get well, go back to class, and look for smaller apartment. I will become more selective as to the information I put into my head. I will try to switch my mind-channels from “alarm”, “breaking news”, and “unfollow” to selectivity. If not now, when? As for Facebook and Twitter and Instagram, don’t look for anything profound. I will leave profundity to those more verbose and learned than I. From time to time, I will post pictures from Nice, clichés from Daddy, and quotes from “whomever”. Seems so trivial in today’s world.
“Do you speak French?” That was the first question that everyone asked Steve and me when we said we were moving to France. We both said no. No problem. We would learn. Well, we tried, but it did not come trippingly off our tongues. Luckily, we gestured and pointed our way through most situations. However, that did not work with the French Health System. Nor did it work with many of the situations that I faced handling matters after Steve’s death. For example, important calls from Paris, leaving messages in French on my phone from a blocked number. I bungled my way through it, but I knew – if I stayed in Nice, I must learn French.
After Christmas, with advice and encouragement from friends, I enrolled in a beginner course at Alliance francaise. Four hours a day, five days a week, four weeks. I am just concluding my first week – exhausted and encouraged, striving to get up to speed. Not easy, but OK. Up at 6:00 a.m., out the door by 8:00, on the No. 15 bus by 8:15, at the Bar/Coffee Shop by 8:35 (fresh orange juice and café Americain),
at class by 8:50, commence work at 9:00,
going non-stop until 1:00. Then – homework. It’s easier than going to trial.
It is a small class of six students – Scott (age 27, very intelligent guy – from Australia), Sukanya (age 40, great personality – from Thailand), Laura (age 16, adorable – from Columbia), Polly (age 35, gorgeous – from Hong Kong), Steven (57, No. 1 helper to ALL of us and married to a French woman, from Daytona Beach, Florida), and me (79 going on 21, gorgeous – from Los Angeles, now Nice, France).
Our professor is Elizabeth (51, tall, gorgeous gracious, patient – married with kids, from France, lives in Eze).
In class, we speak French at all times. Elizabeth answers questions in French. Needless to say, Elizabeth is the only person in the room who seems to know what is going on or what anyone is trying to say. But, she is amazingly patient, and we all are doing well. That said – by 12:00, I am flooded with adrenaline, but the time flies by.
So, at the end of class on the 4th day of my first week during my sixteenth month in Nice, France, I am learning French. Long way to go. No problem. I have the time and the motivation. I can afford a month of tuition. After that, I plan to schedule sessions with people I’ve met who want to practice English. We will exchange time – I practice my French, and he/she practices English. Over coffee somewhere. That works. Gets me out of the condo and gives me practice.
A word about Alliance francaise – it was founded in 1884. It is a non-profit association of higher education (French law of 1901), a member of the first cultural network in the world (all languages included), based on the Alliance francaise Foundation. Each year, over 1700 students from 90 different nationalities come to learn French in a multicultural environment. The Alliance française de Nice, does not only focus on French language teaching. It is part of an international network created in 1883 in Paris by an “organization of free men” working to serve our worldwide renowned language and culture, with schools in 136 countries on all five continents.
These pictures are not up to standard, but will do in a pinch. I don’t want my classmates to think I am not taking things seriously – snapping pics during class.
It has taken me a lifetime to realize the value of downsizing. I was raised by a mother who saved everything. All closets were stuffed to the brim with you-name-it – old clothes, new clothes, too-small clothes, too-large clothes, winter clothes, summer clothes, coats, hats, shoes, shoe boxes, rags, yarn. All available space was crammed full of things we might need at some point in time. Chests of drawers, breakfronts, china cabinets, hall closets, cupboards. Price tags were still on a lot of lingerie stuffed in drawers. Once in a blue moon, Mother would give some clothes to Mama Dorough and Lillian. Some for Joan. I don’t know how she decided what she could part with. That all seemed normal to me. I had more clothes than I could ever wear, kept everything, even when it didn’t fit. We had old books, new books, magazines, old sheet music, song books, hymnals, comic books, newspaper articles, letters, birthday cards, church programs, empty boxes, empty jars, ribbon, wrapping paper, desk supplies. Every cupboard in the kitchen was filled, including the refrigerator and freezer upstairs and the ones in the basement. Daddy enlarged and remodeled; Mother filled it up.
When I got married and had children, I saved everything. “I might need it one day.” Or, “That’s Blake’s hand-print. It stays.” Or, “Tracy painted that cat picture when she was two. That stays.” Not until I moved into a small Beverly Hills apartment did I realize I didn’t have room for it all. When I moved to Irvine, CA, to start law school, I became alarmed. It was expensive moving all that stuff. Plus, I had nowhere to put it. So, I stuffed it in the garage. Not until I needed to get my car off the street did I do a turn-around. That is when I began to simplify. Craig and his new bride Jean needed furniture. I said take what you need. Lucky for me, they left with a full truck of stuff. I could park my car in the garage. Then, when Steve and I married, I had help. We both wanted to downsize. And when we moved to Nice, we got serious about it.
Let’s face it. It has been difficult for me. I was weaned on “keep it”. And, in retrospect, I think Mother was a borderline-hoarder. She would call herself a “clutter-er”. Or, “collector”. When does collecting or cluttering (e.g., “saving for future use”) become hoarding? Who draws the line? Where?
Mayo Clinic calls “hoarding disorder” a persistent difficulty discarding or parting with possessions because of a perceived need to save them. Bingo! A person experiences distress at the thought of getting rid of items. BINGO!! …excessive accumulation of items because the emotional attachment to the hoarded objects far exceeds the motive to discard the item. Ouch!
I’m better. I still have too much. Even on my computer. I have saved files and folders and programs and documents and pictures. Pictures and copies of pictures, and files of duplicates within duplicates.
I shall simplify more. Period, end of story. How else can I create space for the new? Plus, in France, I’m lucky if there is a small closet.
Note: Below are images I saved from Facebook just because I like them. They speak to me in some way. Enjoy.
Books, games, music, and life — filtered through the mind of a writer, drummer, and philosopher who thinks too deeply about all of it. If it moves something in your chest, I'm interested.
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JAYSPEAK 