Day 8: Empty Glass Bear

Simple, small, empty, dust covered. This empty glass bear once held maple syrup, given to my ex by his mother for a Christmas present one year. The bear originally wore a knit hat that quickly become encrusted in syrup and had to be removed before the ants that frequent my kitchen found a new winter home. The syrup didn't last very long as my husband drowned stacks of pancakes I'd make most Sundays in the amber goo. When the last slippery, sticky drop dripped from his glass feet, I washed it out in hot water and set it on the top kitchen shelf. "Why are you keeping that?" my husband had asked. I don't remember if I had a legitimate answer or if I just fell back on "I don't know," but the bear became a fixture in my kitchen and, until today, still stood tall, almost out of reach, but still within view.  At the top of the unblocked white shelves set on metal prongs shoved into a blue-painted hole-covered wall, the bear watched over the rice cakes and tea boxes. I noticed him each time I reached for something from the shelves or stood by the single kitchen counter that extends just feet away. As I drop this into my recycling bin, let me be reminded that slim stature is no reason to hold onto something so clearly empty. 

Day 7: Bed Linens

Sheets, pillow cases, comforter, quilt. I repacked them all in their original plastic, zippered pouches two days after my husband moved out. Like the bedroom curtains, they were quick to be replaced. I held onto them reasoning that they were too large and functional enough that I couldn't just wrap them in garbage bags and place them on the curb. If I ever had a guest spend the night I'd use them on my spare air mattress. My rational mind is laughing at this prospect, knowing that I would use the set of sheets I purchased solely to provide for guests. I wouldn't spend another night on these, I can't imagine setting someone else up to do so.

Although these cumbersome bags were taking up a large amount of space in my closet, the emotional weight is far worse than the clutter. Just before I moved to Georgia, my mother and I went shopping for household items. My husband was still stationed in Germany and wouldn't have cared to accompany me even if he was home.  Shopping for anything decorative proved to be a challenge. I recall finding a beautifully embroidered off-white bedspread and reluctantly returning it to the shelf because I knew my husband would not have approved. "I'm sure he'll like whatever you get," my mother reasoned, but I knew he wouldn't. Instead I bought the pale green comforter and later an equally dull, bland green bedspread. In the end, he never seemed to care about what color they were and only complained that they were too heavy, too heat producing. He'd crank the AC to freezing and steal them away in the night.

For day seven I offer these bed linens that I never liked and have held onto because I've been too reluctant to cut the emotional ties that they have wound around me, tighter than the cocoon my husband formed against the freezing air.

Day 6: Magazines

As I near one week of eliminating objects I am starting to see that not only do these "things" hold memories and emotions, but my holding onto them is reflective of the patterns of attachment in my life. The stack of magazines for day six is a perfect example of this.

At the base of the stack are Poets and Writers magazine dating back to 2007-- the year I got married during spring break, graduated with a Bachelor's degree in English, and moved to Georgia shortly after collecting my diploma. One class shy of having a minor in creative writing, I'd found a solid group of writers to share my work with and to gain inspiration from. I started working in a book store right after high school and remained there all throughout college. Working and going to school in Boston, I was surrounded by a strong writing community and encouraged to produce poetry, short stories, and nonfiction pieces. When I first moved to Georgia I was determined to keep my writing spirit alive, however, after taking a writing workshop at a local library and listening to two southern state laureates talk about how "Yankee" poetry was academic gibberish, I lost hope in recreating the community I'd had back home.  

Unable to find a job that had anything to do with the three degrees I had just earned, I decided I would start submitting my writing to literary journals and contests. I bought a subscription to Poets and Writers magazines and began sending out my writing. I soon learned that it took months to hear back about a single poem or story and more often than not the response was a rejection letter. Sitting at my kitchen table one day, I looked outside and saw a school bus dropping students off at the end of our housing unit. The next day I hand delivered my application to the college of education at a local state university.  A week later the head of the education department asked me if I could see myself teaching. "Yes," I answered, although inside I knew it was a lie-- I had applied out of desperation and was filled with uncertainty. Taking classes full time to graduate in a year and half (when my husband was scheduled to leave the army) I abandoned my publishing fervor.  However, I continued to subscribe to Poets and Writers.  Six years later, the magazines are still arriving in my mailbox and I can't remember the last time I read an issue cover to cover or, to be more honest, glanced at more than the writer obituaries. Not only am I going to find a new home for the six years of back issues, I will not be renewing my subscription which, oddly enough, expires this month.

Mixed in the stack stand Yoga Journal magazines sent to me for free first from a retreat center I have attended several times, and then for purchasing yoga teacher insurance. Although I have read them all, I doubt that I will go back and re-read them. Unless I plan on wallpapering my apartment with inspirational yoga poses, I can't imagine what reason I would need to hold onto these.

Near the top: Hers Muscle and Fitness magazines from the past year. Drawn in by the airbrushed pictures of women who boast perfect six packs, toned legs and arms, a year ago this magazine offered excellent, easy to follow, at home, little equipment necessary, workout instructions. Over the past year I have watched the muscle and fitness articles fade to the point where this magazine should consider changing its name to Supplements and Ads. Despite the fact that I can read the entire magazine in under an hour and the fact that the supplement information is completely irrelevant to me, I continue to buy it out of habit and because a year ago it was a useful magazine. Here's where clutter starts to reflect my tendencies in life. I find myself staying with many things out of habit. It is easy to continue to buy a magazine, work the same job, live in the same apartment or city because its what you are accustomed to doing. Making change is challenging-- whether its as simple as passing by the latest edition of Muscle and Fitness or as difficult as leaving an unhealthy relationship. We cannot allow ourselves to accept our current conditions or actions simply because they have become comfortable through habituation.  

Day 5: Curtains

They muffle noise, add warmth, shield the sun, and bring comfort to a room. When I first moved in to my own home, I bought fabric and hand made curtains to add color to the white walls, floors, and ceiling that covered the rooms of military housing. When I returned to Massachusetts and moved into the first floor apartment of an old Victorian house, my custom made curtains looked like doll house drapes against the giant windows. I hastily bought the curtains pictured here to cover the curved windows.

I hung the dark blue dotted curtains in my kitchen, which has three windows. A small one above the sink and two mid-sized windows on one wall. One window opens up to my landlord's stairway to his second floor apartment. The glass is covered in a thick layer of dust from his side and through the haze one can make out the clutter of old paint cans, his recycling bin, tools, and trash. Discouraged, I bought opaque curtains to shut out his mess and consequently shielded the sun from the other window. My kitchen with its faded striped wallpaper, peeling up boxy linoleum, and winter drafts from the basement and outside door is my least favorite room in the house. A few weeks ago I went on vacation to California and ate each meal sitting on a deck overlooking the ocean. Determined to make my kitchen more liveable, I pulled down the dark drapes and replaced them with white patterned curtains that allow the sunlight to spill across my kitchen table and onto the floor.

I disliked the other curtains from the moment I removed them from the packaging and hung them in my bedroom. An odd green color with squiggles and fringe, they looked like something that belonged with white Christmas trees, and upholstered couches from the 70s. I though maybe if I let them hang around long enough I'd learn to like them. Three years later when my husband moved out my bedroom was the first room to be redecorated. I replaced the green curtains, bedspread, sheets, and rug with shades of red and bunched these curtains up in a bag in my closet. For day five I will donate them to a local Salvation Army and hope that they can provide warmth and comfort to someone else.

Day 4: Microwave

When I was thirteen I decided to become a vegetarian. I made the transition gradually. Ribs were the first food to go. Soon after I stopped eating steaks, pork chops, lamb chops, hamburgers, and any other red meat that my parents provided for me. I continued to eat chicken until my early twenties because I had allowed my doctors and other meat-eaters to convince me that plant based protein was somehow inferior. When I moved out of my parents home I eliminated all meat. At eighteen I developed lactose intolerance, so partly by choice and partly from wanting to avoid the doubled-over stomach stabbing pain that accompanies eating milk products, I eventually became vegan.

Until a few years ago, I figured that being vegetarian or vegan meant I was a healthy eater. Then one night I watched Foodmatters and discovered that my predominantly packaged, processed, and corn-syrup filled diet was far from optimal. After Foodmatters I watched every food documentary I could find. I spent months reading books on food and soon after decided to become a raw foodist. I spent a solid year and a half eating 90% raw foods before it felt like the New England cold had permanently settled in my bones and I caved in to the yearning for warmth. Now, I consider myself a high-raw vegan, eating mostly fresh fruits and vegetables from a local farmer's market.

Before watching Foodmatters I used the microwave not just daily, but at almost every meal. I microwaved instant oatmeal in the morning, heated leftovers for lunch, melted (lactose free) cheese between pita pockets for a mid-afternoon snack, and ate a microwaved veggie burger with microwaved vegetables for dinner. While I was researching raw food and the dangers of GMOs, my father (who has been eating meat and sweets, packaged and processed all of his life) sent me an article that explored the dangers of microwaved foods and claimed that microwaves change the DNA or genetic constitution of food. There were pictures of plants watered with microwaved water and their quick progression from being alive, to wilted, to dead. I took the email as a sign and stopped using the microwave completely.

Although I'd stopped using the microwave, it remained in my apartment. My then-husband wasn't willing to give up microwaved popcorn on movie nights and his work schedule meant he lived on re-heated foods. I opened it one afternoon to clean and discovered a layer of something sticky and yellow that resembled butter. Frustrated, I took to scrubbing with a sponge to non avail. As the yellow resisted my attempts I grew more and more annoyed, scrubbed harder and harder, tilted the microwave on its side and somehow dislodged the door. I spent twenty minutes trying to reattach the door. When he returned home, my husband tried and failed to fix it. Annoyed that I had just purchased it a few months prior, I set it back in its place by the coffee pot.

Years later, the microwave has moved from the top to bottom shelf in a kitchen with limited counter space and cabinets. I have no intentions of ever fixing or using it again. Thankfully 24 things has encouraged me to finally let it go.

Day 3: Vacuum

Immediately after getting married, I moved from Massachusetts, the place I'd called home for 21 years, to Georgia. I lived on a military base in the south western part of the state on the border with Alabama, miles away from Atlanta-- the only city that was even vaguely reminiscent of Boston. Our first night in our new home we slept on the hard white linoleum floor wrapped up in sleeping bags.  I cocooned myself in, hoping to prevent the roli polis and spiders that I'd seen crawling around from finding their way in.

I soon learned that bugs are an inexhaustible  presence in the South. Cockroaches sprinted across the floor, up the walls, under the couch. They fearlessly ran toward me, unphased by my attempts to thwart them with endless cans of Raid.  The Swiffer's sole purpose became the extermination of bugs. Spiders creeped over the sunken door jambs, brown recluses hid out in closets. In mid-summer grasshoppers found their way in through the dryer duct and taunted me by jumping feet from the floor as soon as I approached. In late summer roli polis came out of every crack in the base boards. Slow moving, tiny beetle-like bugs the size of carpenter ants, except round and fat, their only defense mechanism was to roll into a tight ball. Their life spans were short. I'd wake up in the morning and step out into the hallway to find dozens of them had dropped dead mid-stride over night. I'd clean them up daily with the vacuum pictured here.

We bought the smallest, cheapest vacuum we could find. It worked well for the first week before the small openings on the bottom became clogged with hair and bug carcasses. It slowly worked less and less, until eventually it just gave off heat and blew dust in my face as I pushed and pulled it mercilessly over the same spot on the carpet.

Determined to make it work, I pulled out a screwdriver and dissected it on the kitchen floor. I extracted endless mounds of hair and dust-- back then my hair reached to my waist and fell out everywhere. Despite the shopping bag of debris I'd discovered in this tiny vacuum, it still hardly worked when I turned it on again. Somehow, it suffered through the two years we lived in Georgia and even survived the move back to Massachusetts. We'd been back just a few months when I decided the scent of burning hair and the complete absence of suction meant it was time for a new vacuum. Despite the fact that it has been nearly four years since I replaced it, this "power stick" has been sitting in my front entryway, collecting dust since Hoover took over. I am thankful to have garnered the power to leave it with its memories on the curb.

Day 2: Shoes

Last week the weather in Boston finally showed signs of spring and I decided to run the three mile loop around Lake Quannapowitt in Wakefield. Midway through, I realized that no matter how I cajoled myself, my three-year-old sneakers were no longer offering me support.  If I wanted to enjoy a jog without feeling the bones in my knees and ankles scraping against each other I was going to have to buy a new pair of shoes. As a woman, I suppose I'm supposed to enjoy shoe-shopping (or any shopping for that matter) but with my short, flat, and extra-wide feet, scouring shoe shelves for something remotely comfortable is usually a week and sometimes month long event. The day before I was to begin 24 Things I set out determined to find a new pair of sneakers.  Perhaps it was my conviction, or just sheer luck, that led me to find not only a new pair of running shoes, but also a pair of heels in the second store I ventured into. Months before, I had already begun piling shoes on top of each other on the floor of my closet. I could either add a third tier or eliminate some of the never-worn and over-worn shoes that had somehow escaped the last bag of donated clothes.

For day two, I've eliminated five pairs of shoes from the floor of my closet. I bought the pair closest to the camera most recently from a "last chance-- everything on this table just $10" sale at Berks in Harvard Square. Maybe it was the "last chance" sign, the summer sun shining over the table, or the fact that they were just $10 and happened to fit, but I bought the shoes without serious consideration. Once home, I slipped them on a second time only to realize the soles are made almost entirely of a wool/felt-like material that seems appropriate only for speed-skating across linoleum floors. I've been staring at them at the foot of my closet for almost a year and hadn't had the heart to remove them until now.

The second set claimed the title of favorite shoes for so long you can still see my foot imprint in them even though they've been empty for at least six years. The stitching in the back has come loose, the soles are as thin as paper and yet I've clung to them because they were my favorite shoes a decade ago. Am I hoping that someday there will be a world's oldest worn-out shoe contest and I'll be able to submit them proudly?

In the center stands the flower-lined heels that I retired at the beginning of the school year. The left heel hasn't faced the right way for months and the soles are on the verge of total disintegration. Maybe it's the fact that they are the most recent to be worn out that I haven't been able to let them go.

Next in line, a pair I ordered over the internet immediately after I gave up on my favorite pair of heels of all time (they didn't make this send-off as I'm still hoping I'll find a magic cobbler who will put them together again.) I searched for weeks trying to find the exact pair of heels that I'd been wearing down for three years, but the brand itself was practically obsolete, let alone a particular style of shoe. I settled for something that looked comparable, but when they came in the mail I felt like Cinderella's evil step-sister, trying to cram my too-wide foot into the stiff and narrow toes. I suffered through an entire day of work with them, my feet were numb and angry when I finally peeled them off.

Last, a pair of heels that I bought eight years ago. They were the most expensive pair of dress shoes I'd ever purchased and much like the internet-order heels, the unforgiving leather suffocated my feet. I was so determined not to let them go to waste I would wrap masking tape around my feet in an attempt to make them narrower and to shield my skin from blisters. I think the masking tape wrapping lasted a month before I banished them to the bowels of my closet forever. When I moved to Georgia six years ago they traveled with me, never leaving my carry-on bag, and two years later they traveled home, still stuffed in the bottom of the travel case.

So for day two, I say goodbye to these fives lost soles. The over-worn, the never-worn, and the sadly-worn.