Well, moving, actually, but why not?
I told the children over and over when we were placing all our belongings into boxes: "Don't judge, just pack. We'll sort at the new place, after we're past our deadline."
We're not quite past our out-by date, but we only have one room left to move from the old place (the top two floors of a lovely brownstone in the heart of a mid-sized city) to the new place (a sixties ranch bordering a 450-acre nature preserve, a quick bike ride from the very last bus stop to downtown).
Four days left to move that one room. But I can't entirely resist judging my possessions anymore. I have to at least organize the food and clothes. After all, we have to eat and dress while we move. And I am taking things out of boxes and deciding where they go.
I haven't read anything about the life-changing magic of getting rid of most of your stuff, but I was raised by a pathological minimalist who periodically simply threw everything out. I recognize that as crazy, but I also have known from youngest how deliciously joyful life is when you only own objects you are willing to fight for. Simple. Rich. One's home becomes mouthwatering, all your environment so desired. It's a good way to do it.
I have had an enormous victory in this area just this very day, and now my energy for organizing is manic and powerful. I was able to convince my indulged, more-clothes-than-fit-in-our-closets-but-too-bad-'cause-we-love-clothes stepdaughters that they shouldn't have more than ten of any given item of clothing, and that they should sort their clothing into strict categories and possess only what fits into those categories.
I had always limited my own children pretty strictly: four pairs of pants, eight tops, two pajamas, three shoes (wellies, dress shoes and sneakers), one coat. I had boggled at how to get the girls to accept anything like this, and had given up when my husband said he didn't want to ask them to minimize. He values giving them their liberty more than demonstrating to them this theoretical minimalism joy that he has never really experienced. I had accepted that as long as they were willing to be responsible for their own insane laundry issues. With that background, I was thrilled when I happened to convince them accidentally.
We've been planning our life in this new house, figuring out what the spaces should be used for, of course. I walked the girls visually through the dimensions of their own cozy minimalist bedrooms (which they chose, and want instinctively, because, I guess, all children crazy small nook-like spaces). These "cabins," the kids call them, inspired by stories of sailors, will be bedrooms built into the new house's bonus spaces, one per kid. Maybe, we've been thinking, later they'll be tiny houses on wheels that they can build in the woodsy acre and take with them to wherever they desire to land.
It occurred to the stepgirls while they were sorting laundry into new, temporary, til-the-cabins-are-built dressers that they would have to be mindful of what they possess in order to fit themselves into the tiny rooms they so crave. I jumped right in with a proposed number of items and set of categories, and they eagerly adopted them, especially after realizing that they would need to get more sundresses to meet the number of short-sleeve tops I recommended. Victory!
Next up: groceries.
I told the children over and over when we were placing all our belongings into boxes: "Don't judge, just pack. We'll sort at the new place, after we're past our deadline."
We're not quite past our out-by date, but we only have one room left to move from the old place (the top two floors of a lovely brownstone in the heart of a mid-sized city) to the new place (a sixties ranch bordering a 450-acre nature preserve, a quick bike ride from the very last bus stop to downtown).
Four days left to move that one room. But I can't entirely resist judging my possessions anymore. I have to at least organize the food and clothes. After all, we have to eat and dress while we move. And I am taking things out of boxes and deciding where they go.
I haven't read anything about the life-changing magic of getting rid of most of your stuff, but I was raised by a pathological minimalist who periodically simply threw everything out. I recognize that as crazy, but I also have known from youngest how deliciously joyful life is when you only own objects you are willing to fight for. Simple. Rich. One's home becomes mouthwatering, all your environment so desired. It's a good way to do it.
I have had an enormous victory in this area just this very day, and now my energy for organizing is manic and powerful. I was able to convince my indulged, more-clothes-than-fit-in-our-closets-but-too-bad-'cause-we-love-clothes stepdaughters that they shouldn't have more than ten of any given item of clothing, and that they should sort their clothing into strict categories and possess only what fits into those categories.
I had always limited my own children pretty strictly: four pairs of pants, eight tops, two pajamas, three shoes (wellies, dress shoes and sneakers), one coat. I had boggled at how to get the girls to accept anything like this, and had given up when my husband said he didn't want to ask them to minimize. He values giving them their liberty more than demonstrating to them this theoretical minimalism joy that he has never really experienced. I had accepted that as long as they were willing to be responsible for their own insane laundry issues. With that background, I was thrilled when I happened to convince them accidentally.
We've been planning our life in this new house, figuring out what the spaces should be used for, of course. I walked the girls visually through the dimensions of their own cozy minimalist bedrooms (which they chose, and want instinctively, because, I guess, all children crazy small nook-like spaces). These "cabins," the kids call them, inspired by stories of sailors, will be bedrooms built into the new house's bonus spaces, one per kid. Maybe, we've been thinking, later they'll be tiny houses on wheels that they can build in the woodsy acre and take with them to wherever they desire to land.
It occurred to the stepgirls while they were sorting laundry into new, temporary, til-the-cabins-are-built dressers that they would have to be mindful of what they possess in order to fit themselves into the tiny rooms they so crave. I jumped right in with a proposed number of items and set of categories, and they eagerly adopted them, especially after realizing that they would need to get more sundresses to meet the number of short-sleeve tops I recommended. Victory!
Next up: groceries.