Long story short, I’ve gotten to less. Although, there’s always more to go and more to say on this topic, I’m closing out this blog and devoting my energy to growing my feng shui and color consulting practice. Visit my website Creating Joyful Spaces, or follow me at Joyful Spaces on Facebook, where I’ve got lots of new tips to share.
See you there!
Tag Archives: feng shui
I am stunned and tremendously relieved. Yes, it’s a wonderful feel-good home. Yes, I feng shui’d the heck out of it. Yes, I think we priced it right. Still, in this funky down market, to get two basically full-price offers almost immediately is miraculous.
The average time on the market in my town was 158 days in August. I told my realtor that if the house didn’t sell by Halloween (75 days from listing) I would take it off the market because living in a house that’s on the market is like living in a museum. That’s about 60 days over my good behavior limit as Miss Super-Anal-Tidybutt.
When you live in a house that’s on the market you can’t touch anything because at any moment the realtor could call with a client. You must make your bed the moment you climb out of it, clear the sink of dirty dishes the instant you finish eating, mow the lawn obsessively. You can’t cook odiferous foods. I loaned out my dog because she tracks in dirt and turns her corner of the carpet gray overnight.
One of the two offers wanted to move in in just five weeks. EEEK. (Also Repubicans – which doesn’t really fit the vibe of the house).
The other offer came from the Democratic State Rep in whose district I live – and for whom I hosted a fund-raising coffee here last fall because he’s a great guy. He has two little girls, 5 & 8, who think that there may be fairies in the yard. My kind of family.
They wanted a closing date of December 15, which suits me fine, because I’ve got to unload a LOT of STUFF.
But that’s a topic for the next chapter in this down-sizing epic.
Plenitude: abundance, copiousness; the condition of being full, complete. From Latin: plenus = full.
Whenever you’re feeling cranky, mingy and stingy, like you just don’t have ENOUGH (enough whatever – money, love, time), the pop psychology wisdom is to open your heart to the gifts you already have and to feel gratitude for the bounty in your life.
And I do that. I feel grateful for the abundance in my life most of the time.
I am satisfied and want not.
However. Plenitude is not necessarily all it’s cracked up to be.
I’ve got TOO MUCH of a good thing. Too much of MANY good things. Too big a house. Too big a (beautiful) garden. Too many books. Too many interests. Too many commitments. My life is plenus to the max.
Though you can never have too many friends.
A feng shui colleague of mine suggests that if you want something new in your life (new career, partner, social circle, home) you have to go beyond ordinary clutter clearing. You have to create a VACUUM. Only when there’s a nice big hole will something rush in to fill it.
Here’s the experiment: after I jettison half my stuff and find a place half as big as my current home, what other opportunities will appear?
And if I’d complete my divorce and stop being friends with my ex, will a new romance appear?
While I love getting away, seeing new sights, meeting new people, I am firmly anchored at home. Home is where my heart is. Home is where I center and rejuvenate myself.
Since my ex and I separated seven years ago, my home has been a 3,000 square foot house on a one-third acre lot framed by trees and nestled into a gentle slope overlooking a lake. In feng shui, this fortuitous placement is called “the belly of the dragon.”
This is the most wonderful home I’ve ever had – and people who visit are immediately enchanted by it as well. Not because it’s grand – because it is anything but (built from a plan-book in 1972). But it’s cozy, colorful and quirky.
So why did a single woman of modest means buy a house this big? Aside from my instant heart connection to it, it was the only house I could find within my pre-recession budget that had a dining room big enough for my grandmother’s dining table, and a living room large enough for my mother’s Steinway baby grand (which I’m keeping for my still-peripatetic son, 25).
And ohmigod the yard! The previous owners were skillful gardeners who left behind shrubs, native plants, sheets of color from spring bulbs, rock walls, five prolific blueberry bushes, a grape arbor and an asparagus bed! A chestnut tree on the southwest corner to keep the house cool in the summer, and a couple of towering black walnut trees in my neighbor’s yard that frames my view to the northwest.
I plowed a lot of money into remodeling. If the economy and housing market hadn’t plunged, the investment might have been wise. But now the moths in my purse are looking hungry.
Walking around the yard this spring, I’m seeing not just beauty but bondage. The yard work is unending. And it’s more work than a single woman of my age wants to do.
My options as I see it: find a new mate (someone who loves to garden or has enough money to pay a gardener); inherit lots of money from a long-lost maiden aunt or down-size.
At the moment the first two options are in the realm of fiction . That leaves me with down-sizing.
It’s so easy to be blithe about down-sizing when it’s my feng shui clients’ stuff. But the shoe is now on MY foot and it hurts. Yesterday I sat in the yard and wept just thinking about letting go of this place.
It took me months to find my home – and now I’ll be fighting the growing horde of down-sizers who are also seeking a smaller, charming home within walking distance to shops and public transportation.
I hope I can maintain some shred of equanimity during this process. For sure I’ll be a better consultant after I’ve done it myself.
Parigraha: n. ancient Sanskrit word meaning grasping, hoarding, holding onto one’s stuff.
Sooner or later – and the way the economy and my savings are going right now it’s looking like a lot sooner – I’m going to have to sell my house and move into much smaller quarters.
I am therefore faced with two inarguable reasons to let go of a lot of my stuff:
1) A home that is sparsely furnished shows better when it goes on the market because prospective buyers have enough open space that they can imagine themselves and their stuff in it.
2) My future home, which will be about half the size of this one, can comfortably fit only half as much stuff – if that much, maybe less.
In yoga, we study the yamas and niyamas, which are about how we want to be in the world as compassionate enlightened yogis. Patanjali wrote them down about 150 BCE (!) as part of the Yoga Sutras. They’re kind of like rules of conduct – not rigid or dogmatic – but more like ideal states of being to continuously work towards.
The fifth yama is aparigraha (the opposite of parigraha) or non-grasping, non-hoarding. Ideally we yogis are not attached to our stuff. It flows in and out of our lives – we use it and let it go, use it and let it go. Ideally.
But our stuff means so much to us! It is SPECIAL stuff. Even if it stands in the way of emotional and physical freedom, we clutch it close.
My current spiritual practice involves gathering the equivalent of a box of stuff every day – either for disposal (recycling LOTS of paper right now), re-use (Goodwill, here I come), or sale. I’m starting with easy stuff – a couple of days ago it was ancient computer manuals, old tax papers and receipts. I’ve got boxes and boxes and file drawers and file drawers more paper to go.
Not wanting to overwhelm my recycle pickup service I switched yesterday to culling socks, stockings and tights.
Today is table linens. I have an amazing number of napkins that I never use because they clash with my dinner dishes, or are stained, or are insufficient (why is it I buy a set of SIX napkins, when I rarely feed less than EIGHT for a company dinner??).
I know I’ll have to make much deeper cuts in every department, but I’ll use the easy stuff like mental weight-lifting, to strengthen my resolve.
The hardest will be stuff that I equate with memories – of a special person, place or time. Down the road.
Hi, My name is Joy and I am a Paperholic.
I’m grateful to be here with you today at Paperholics Anonymous. I don’t know where else I can turn.
My addiction began innocently enough. I was in college, writing an essay on feminist thought in early Ibsen. I had notes on index cards, notes on scrap paper, notes on the backs of envelopes and in the margins of books.
It was 6 a.m. and I’d been working on this !@#$% since noon the previous day. It was due in two hours and I COULD NOT FIND the scrap on which the perfect ending quote was scrawled.
I pawed pathetically through the papers till my desk looked like the bottom of a hamster’s cage. Minutes before my deadline the note surfaced and I typed my brilliant conclusion.
But ever since that day I’ve had a Paper Problem.
I LOVE paper. Books, magazines and newspapers, of course. But even better I like articles clipped from magazines and ripped from newspapers. I read the newspaper like I’m on an easter egg hunt. I scan to rule out all the drivel I don’t want to read, but when I find an interesting article, I tear it out and set it aside to read later.
The pile on which I place it grows ever taller, because every day there’s more to read. The pile must compete with a steady influx of the New Yorker and Newsweek magazines (both relentless weeklies – I get only one monthly, National Geographic.)
The New Yorker is especially challenging because I like to rip out the good cartoons to distribute to various acquaintances. Like here’s one for my son, the industrial designer:
And here’s one for a friend considering surgery:
The only good news is that I’ve managed to cut my junk mail and catalog intake to almost zero. (This demands dogged dialing to each company’s 800 number.)
Two spots compete to attract the most paper: the end of my kitchen counter, and the top of my desk. It’s an all or nothing proposition. If the space is clear, I can stay on the wagon… for awhile.
But then I have a little slip; maybe I get too busy to put things away before I rush off to the next thing. “I’ll just put it here for now…” I tell myself, as I set a piece of paper on the counter top.
I should know by now I can’t just save one piece of paper. Before I know what hit me I’m buried again.
How buried? Imagine an exhibit at the Natural History Museum, where you’ve got a cross-section of the earth’s layers…
The top-most layer is light and fluffy – mostly current newsprint, Toyota tuneup coupons and an occasional offer for a 2-for-1 dinner. That’s about six inches deep.
The next 6” layer is more compressed – printouts of articles I read online, reports, manuals, magazines yet to be ripped into. Printer paper doesn’t fluff as nicely as ripped newsprint.
From time to time, I moisten the pile with a cup of spilled coffee or tea. Using both hands like salad tongs, I turn the pile as I seek some piece of wisdom I know is about halfway down. This serves to aerate the pile nicely. Over time, the lowest layers begin to heat up and decompose.
The bottom six inches is where my addiction begins to pay off. That’s where I’ve got dark brown crumbly compost, complete with happy earthworms. It grows great tomatoes.
You may ask, what have I tried to cure my addiction?
I had great hopes when it was rumored that the advent of computers would bring us the paperless office. This didn’t work for me: my computer just brought me in contact with MORE articles I wanted to print.
I tried taping my eyes shut so I could no longer read. I tried going cold turkey – installing a paper detection/rejection system at the door.
But then I found myself rifling through my neighbor’s recycle bins in the middle of the night seeking day-old paper.
So, now I’ve hit bottom and I’m here at Paperholics Anonymous. Can you help me?