The things we keep
Decluttering is not all it's cracked up to be
Today’s post/article/column (what do we call it?) comes to you with a large dose of anxiety. A fluttering in my chest, as if something isn’t quite right, but it’s not something I can put my finger on. I suspect it’s hormones and it reminds me, yet again, that I really should track when I feel like this and see if this familiar feeling is cyclical.
We’re making progress with Colin (the caravan), E has started wrapping the exposed undercarriage in decking, the idea being that it will prevent the wind from getting under the van, not a prospect I relish come the fiercest of the winter storms. This got me thinking that I really should make a start on all the clothes I unpacked into him a few (many) weeks ago. The keep pile is in the living room and the not keep pile is in the master bedroom. Yes, we have a master bedroom; it has a double bed, a small built-in wardrobe & built-in cupboards above the bed. There is just enough room to squeeze around either side of the bed too, fairly luxurious I’d say.
I started with the keep pile and folded things neatly, including the summer wardrobe, Christmas jumpers and thermals. Thankfully, it is not quite thermal weather yet and so they are going back in the loft until absolutely necessary. I then headed to the bedroom to sort the mayhem in there into Vinted - Charity - Bin/Fabric bin. It was here that my anxiety turned from a flutter into something bigger and I think I know why.
There were quite a lot of my Mum’s things in there, things I loved and thought would suit me and that I’d wear but haven’t in the 5 years since I inherited them. I’m the only girl, so I kind of went to town and took almost all her tops, a number of dresses and skirts, coats, shoes and a billion scarves. I’m not overly sentimental, so was quite taken aback by how sorting through them affected me. Don’t get me wrong, I do keep plenty. I have postcards from my uni days and ticket stubs from travelling. Plus I have darned my favourite pair of Mum’s socks until they are within an inch of their original selves and now they just sit there in my drawer, but this was hard.
Most of it I was easily able to add to the Vinted/Charity pile - none went to the bin, but there were a few things that on second look I just couldn’t part with: a pair of patterned, pleated shorts (I’m not doing them justice) she wore to my cousins wedding back in 1992, a 1970’s dress that was never going to fit me and a scarf that she wore on repeat in her last couple of years that would never suit me, but is just so Mum.
They came back with me to the living room as it was time to tackle the things I’d already labelled as sentimental. This is where it got worse, most of it is just cute, a memory box from our wedding, a quilt my cousin made for me when I was a baby and a few of my favourite childhood clothes and teddies. But also in that little pile was the nightie Mum was wearing when she died. It was one of her old ones, not the new ones we got her when we knew she wasn’t coming home. It’s a tatty thing, essentially a long t-shirt, but we wanted her to be in a fresh nightie each day and that had been at the top of the pile. I’m grateful it was an older one, it was familiar. The new two ended up washed and in the charity shop, we didn’t need reminders of why we got them. My lovely friend had bought them as I couldn’t get to town and I was desperate to get Mum out of the hospital gowns.
By rights, I probably should’ve checked I could keep the nightie with my brothers and they both subscribe to this, so sorry boys. It was with all the stuff we took from the hospice and it I needed it. The knot, the flutter, got bigger. I realised I still need it, so that got packed up along with the scarf and the shorts into my sentimental bag. Decluttering can stir up so many memories and emotions. Did I ask myself the question ‘does it bring me joy?’ no, because it doesn’t but it does bring me comfort. As much as it hurts and makes me feel wonky, I'm grateful for these reminders of Mum. Five years and I still don’t think I’ve wrapped my head around it, most of the time it’s fine and then it hits me like a freight train.
Time for a break and change of scene. E and I went for a little stroll with Kiki, fresh air, fresh head and that dog on a walk can lighten anyone’s mood - providing we don’t meet any dogs! Then I decided to treat myself to a pot of tea, a slice of cake and the final episode of series 3 of Bridgerton, in the Colin (I know!). And now I feel pretty ok again, the flutter is diminishing, the anxiety is easing.
The other answer to this feeling could also be in the email I received from The Independent this morning with the headline ‘The moment I realised midlife, menopause and merlot don’t mix’ by Clair Woodward. Apologies, there is a paywall on this article, but to be fair, I think the headline says it all and its not as if we haven’t heard it before. From our friends, family, colleagues and online - alcohol and the menopause do not mix. But I’m not so sure! Still, anxiety is a familiar feeling after a big night, only Saturday was far from a big night, but maybe 2 glasses of Pinot Noir as it was for me, is too much these days. At the moment I’m contemplating staying off the booze until we get to the Netherlands to see the family, but I’ll see how I feel come Friday!
So, what else has been occurring this week?
Kiki and I made a trip out to Dwarfie Stane, the dog hates the car but I’m fed up with being locked into the same walks, day in, day out because of it. It’s only 20 mins in the car and she loved it while we were there. A million sniffs and a million opportunities to mark her territory.
It was a pretty remarkable experience. Not only is it under the protection of the Hoy hills with a clear view of the sea, it’s a work of art. Dwarfie Stane is a large sandstone boulder that was hollowed out to create a chambered tomb around 3000 BCE. All other tombs in Orkney, as I understand it, were stone-built and, are in proper terms, cairns, as they are covered in stones. Dwarfie Stane however, doesn’t need a covering as it’s self-enclosed.
Dwarfie Stane was hollowed out with simple stone tools, most likely made of harder stone, it was the Stone Age after all. It would have taken years and years and years, in fact, I can’t even imagine how long it must have taken. Perhaps it’s the Neolithic version of Barcelona’s Sagrada Família. If you look closely, you can see the little peck marks where they would’ve chipped away, but all in all it’s pretty smooth. What a feat and it’s pretty snug too, so you wouldn’t have been able to have a team of people working on it.
Sitting cocooned in the safety of the tomb, you can’t help but marvel that you are sitting in a structure created by people who stood on this spot 5000 years ago. Being able to touch something and know how much love and care went into it is something I just can’t get my head around. Feeling that connection is pretty magical. It’s certainly a place I will come back to, perhaps on my own with a flask of tea and a slice of ginger cake.
Take care
Han 🧡
This weeks reads
Cambridge Ladies’ Dining Society: How to use a library
Ann Kennedy Smith
Learning about impressive women is one of my favourite things and so I introduce you to Mary Paley Marshall and this wonderful publication.
Lemon Soul: "Publication is not all that it's cracked up to be...
Emma Simpson
“I just try to warn people who hope to get published that publication is not all that it is cracked up to be. But writing is.”
A timely reminder, not because I’m in any danger of being published, but I need to put the idea of publishing out of my head and focus on the writing.
You and E sound pretty handy. Here’s a silly thought for you: maybe you could set up a Wi-Fi antenna outside Dwarfie Stane and you could be the first person to write an epistolary novel from inside a 5000-year-old tomb. Have a good and safe trip to the Netherlands.
I've just written a post about something similar. I brought two rucksacks of my mum's clothes back with me, including a jumper she knitted, dresses I remember, and scarves.