Before we married, much of the advice we heard from mentors and those we love and respect was plainly, "compromise." If we didn't learn it before, we sure did preparing to travel and while we've been out gallivanting around the globe! We tried to find the best bargains in all of our dealings, from cost of flights, to choice of dinner options. We bargained with each over what to keep and what to give away, a pain-staking process.

Tears were shed over seemingly silly things. The week before we left, simple choices were laced with the weight of bargaining. "What do you want to eat?" actually meant, "This may be the last lunch you eat in California. What will it be?" Everything became bigger. It wasn't just In-n-Out, it was our last In-n-Out for who knows how long!! It wasn't just a winter coat that I used every three years and rarely thought about, it was THE winter coat my Grammie bought me, that I wore on that one trip to Big Bear with my dear friend, Kaitlin, that had amazing soft pockets and suddenly is now the most precious thing I own and MUST keep. A reasonable person might try to comfort me, "You can buy another one, just the same, when you actually need one... We can't keep everything." But things now held a value I never intentionally ascribed to them. We haggled over everything from shampoo to wedding gifts, from Christmas ornaments to furniture.

We made deals. Ok, you pick breakfast, I get to choose dinner. You're keeping this, so I get to keep that. We bargained with each other; we bargained with items. We bargained with our own limits and sanity (see my previous post: Anger).

In the end, even things we agreed to keep had to be scrapped. We ran out of time or energy or both. Items were accidentally donated instead of stored, left instead of taken, thrown away instead of given away in the mayhem that was the great and terrible Purge. Over and over I was confronted by an ugliness in my heart that had been dwelling like Smoag inside the Lonely Mountain: I found that all the while I believed I possessed things, they actually possessed me and held me captive.

Now, I don't consider myself a materialistic person. My Grammie teases me for hating shopping. Nearly all my clothes, she bought for me until I had to buy clothes for work. I'll go for an occasional splurge, but that's usually in the form of food or when it's Christmas time (especially in the clearance section!) I mean how can I NOT get those adorable knitted stockings with our initials on them! Don't worry, the irony of spending too much in the clearance section is not lost on me. Generally, though, I'm a thrifty gal. I don't care for name brands or high-end stores. You won't find me getting a big purchase unless I see immense value beyond the price tag. I'm fortunate in that Cameron and I are always on the same page about the balance between spending and saving.

Cameron isn't materialistic either. When we married, he had three small, brown boxes, filled mostly with books, a small, black dufflebag of clothes, one alternate pair of shoes than that which he was wearing, and one set of sheets (which I bought him) to his name. It took all of five minutes to move him in to our would-be apartment. Needless to say, this process was easier for him than for myself namely due to his good nature and my sentimentality.

Cameron and I worked our way into disposable incomes-- something neither of us had experienced before. For two years we accumulated memories, trips, souvenirs, holidays and with them: things. Things we purchased or were given which never needed justification for keeping...until now. Things we were suddenly faced with having to bargain for, as if we were bargaining for the memories they held instead.

Both of us had our bouts with poverty and know the value of things (and more importantly, how small that value is compaired to that which is intangible.) Money isn't everything when you have it, when you don't, it is. Even still, we bargained for things-- we fought, toiled, cried. Two chairs instead of four. Two blankets instead of six. One car instead of two. I was alarmed to discover that things had taken hold of us, and how very apt the advice to "compromise" was.

What We Learned

It's hard to acknowledge that even when things go, their value to you never will. Nor that the process of letting go isn't just for the greedy, who needlessly collect things, nor hoarders who keep them, nor Ice Queens who sing stop snowy mountains, but for US. It is good for the sentimental, the parsimonious, the ones who deeply value things. It clears space for people in your life. Things distract you by ammusing you, keeping you focussed on an illuminated screen, a toy, a project. Things are never valid substitutes for communion, quality time, or people. They won't fulfill you or give you meaning, however intriguing, wonderful, or helpful they may be. It's a bargain worth haggling over to get rid of things that you think hold your identity, creativity, or memories if only to discover they do not.

Purging our home, garage, lives of stuff and plucking off the remnants into three new categories: suitcase, storage, or give away, was not unlike forcing oneself into an outfit that is several times too small. I felt as though I couldn't breathe, that I needed more space, and IT HURT. But once I was free of it, when the bargaining had ended, there was an incredible sigh of relief to accompany our new found freedom.

Things don't just take up space in your home, they take up space in your soul. You feel when you give up so much, that you'll be as empty as the room becomes when you clear it. Interestingly, as so many things have gone in this journey, the opposite occurs. In the aftermath of letting go, we realized that things are just that: things. Weights that hold you down. Weights are great things if you're staying in one place awhile, making a home. Things can keep you grounded, but you can't keep them with you if you plan on flying.

So we flew.