Day minus four

The van goes in for minor service to ensure it will survive the title of road warrior. An exhaust gasket is leaking. I walked back from the service station in driving rain. We will encounter many days of rain, but the thought of it being so close to departure time is depressing. I've resigned to the fact that there won't be a fanfare of waving confetti to bid us good voyage, but a sunny day would be nice.

The minimalist syndrome

Readying for this grand trip began with the realization that I needed to rid myself of things. This was especially important if I was going to box everything up before I was 40. But how do you part with twenty odd years of accumulation?

Some years back I was afflicted with a burning desire to become a minimalist; to search and destroy all items that had settled into a holding pattern in my closets and attic. Now faced with this trip, I wished I had acted on that fever with a bit more vigilance. Alas, it was always easier to keep things, and to keep keeping than make that final decision to toss.

So now, I began again. I had new energy, new purpose. I dedicated one side of the attic as the keeper's side and one side as the tosser's. In great moments of strength I piled papers, lamps and boxes on the tossing side. My childhood diary, gone. Art work from my trial years as a Japanese sumi painter, gone. Picture frames who's backs would never again hide the badly patched holes in my walls, all history. But alas, my great moments of strength were almost always followed by greater moments of weakness. I would creep quietly over and pull things back.

My cure came when I investigated the cost of the 150 square foot storage bin I would require to house my treasures. An extra $775 a year was not worth my small pottery tea set, or my collection of bronze pencil sharpeners. I began tossing and not looking back. Now I feel considerably lighter and as yet haven't missed a thing I've thrown out.