Mathom regrets
Sep. 22nd, 2014 05:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fufarawHaving lived through the Smauglike accumulation period of my life (most toys wins! buy stuff makes me feel better!), and on into the "I no longer wish to arrange/dust/curate this pile o' treasures" stage, I have given many things away. Sent stuffed animals from my collection home with weeping friends of my kids, given away clothing that "fits you like it was made for you" when it never actually did fit me, or a color that made me look dead and laid out, but "is devastating on you!" Extra kitchen gadgets--"out of drawer space!"--or books, "Read it twice, you'll love it!", dvds I'll never watch again, jewelry--"haven't worn it in years, it goes with your shirt!"--and the like. Divestiture can be as rewarding as acquisition--and less of my time and energy spent on maintenance!
I've never regretted letting something go, whether to a friend it suited better, or was made happy by receipt of it, or to charity where I knew it would make someone happy/keep someone warm/help someone find a job, or make it till the next paycheck.
Except for two things. One I never actually had in my possession. My son worked in a furniture factory for a time, and he made his long-time live-in ohmygod, how much more toxic together could they be-girlfriend a chopping board, about three inches thick, eighteen wide and two and a half feet long--hardwood end grain, about eight pounds of it. When they broke up she asked me if I'd like to have it. I hesitated. I thought about it. I really would have loved to have it. But I told her, "He made it for you. If you can forget any bad associations, and will actually use it, and remember the good things and times, I think you should keep it." So she did. Sometimes I hate being altruistic.
Where we used to live there were owls, we'd hear them call almost every night. One night my other son was out on the deck on a moonless night, just standing by the rail. He felt a disturbance in the air by his cheek, and then a sharp scrabble of claws on the weathervane. "Fucker, you had the whole sky--you buzzed me on purpose!"
In the morning, he found a ten-inch long brown, pale and darker grey barred feather on the ground below the weathervane and brought it to me. Such a treasure.
A friend's birthday was upcoming, and I had been singularly uninspired as to a gift. I put together a parcel of things--surf-polished stones from our fall trip to the beach, a handwoven scarf from a local weaver. And I folded a piece of cardboard into a sleeve to keep the feather safe, and drew and painted designs on the cardboard sleeve, and tucked it into the parcel and sent it off.
We parted ways not long after that. I never held a grudge, I don't believe she did. Our interests just slowly drew us apart. We had exchanged gifts for years, and I still use things she sent every day, every week. Maybe she does too. But sometimes I do wish I had kept the feather.
I've never regretted letting something go, whether to a friend it suited better, or was made happy by receipt of it, or to charity where I knew it would make someone happy/keep someone warm/help someone find a job, or make it till the next paycheck.
Except for two things. One I never actually had in my possession. My son worked in a furniture factory for a time, and he made his long-time live-in ohmygod, how much more toxic together could they be-girlfriend a chopping board, about three inches thick, eighteen wide and two and a half feet long--hardwood end grain, about eight pounds of it. When they broke up she asked me if I'd like to have it. I hesitated. I thought about it. I really would have loved to have it. But I told her, "He made it for you. If you can forget any bad associations, and will actually use it, and remember the good things and times, I think you should keep it." So she did. Sometimes I hate being altruistic.
Where we used to live there were owls, we'd hear them call almost every night. One night my other son was out on the deck on a moonless night, just standing by the rail. He felt a disturbance in the air by his cheek, and then a sharp scrabble of claws on the weathervane. "Fucker, you had the whole sky--you buzzed me on purpose!"
In the morning, he found a ten-inch long brown, pale and darker grey barred feather on the ground below the weathervane and brought it to me. Such a treasure.
A friend's birthday was upcoming, and I had been singularly uninspired as to a gift. I put together a parcel of things--surf-polished stones from our fall trip to the beach, a handwoven scarf from a local weaver. And I folded a piece of cardboard into a sleeve to keep the feather safe, and drew and painted designs on the cardboard sleeve, and tucked it into the parcel and sent it off.
We parted ways not long after that. I never held a grudge, I don't believe she did. Our interests just slowly drew us apart. We had exchanged gifts for years, and I still use things she sent every day, every week. Maybe she does too. But sometimes I do wish I had kept the feather.
