Jennifer R. Hubbard's Blog, page 35
January 14, 2015
Thinking about what matters
Some of you who started following this blog as a writer's journal may be wondering what the heck I am doing lately, blogging so much about decluttering and simplifying, but I suspect that most readers either see or trust in an underlying connection. Letting go of physical stuff is also a metaphor for letting go of other baggage: mental, emotional, psychological. It can be a metaphor for revising, deleting. It's also about accepting that certain plans haven't worked out, that some goals will have to change.
I'm not yet ready to talk about exactly how this is playing out in my writing life, mostly because new plans and goals are still tentative, still being figured out. But in some reading I was doing last night, I came across these lines which especially spoke to me:
"I don't need to fill my life with more stuff. I need to think about what matters to me."
--from Traveling on Grace Street, by Jeff Blake
I'm not yet ready to talk about exactly how this is playing out in my writing life, mostly because new plans and goals are still tentative, still being figured out. But in some reading I was doing last night, I came across these lines which especially spoke to me:
"I don't need to fill my life with more stuff. I need to think about what matters to me."
--from Traveling on Grace Street, by Jeff Blake
January 11, 2015
Memento, memory
Before the letting go of anything, there is the willingness to let go.
As I said before, I'd been operating in a sort of save-everything default mode. The best thing this decluttering project has done for me is to make me more mindful of what I'm accumulating in the first place. Until now, I would keep everything unless I could convince myself there was a good reason to discard it. Now my philosophy is to question everything, to justify keeping rather than discarding/donating it.
This has been eye-opening. Do I really need so many pairs of black socks? So many address labels, bookmarks, barrettes? Do I need all those business cards I've been saving--how many of those people will I contact again? These pants that will probably never fit again? This expired medication? These train schedules that are more than a decade old? This game I never play? This watch that two different jewelers were unable to fix? These keys that match no lock I know of? My elementary-school report cards? My college ID?
Some of these are items that would be useful to a biographer. But let's face it, nobody will be writing my biography. And if they do, they'll just have to live without my third-grade teacher's appraisal of my penmanship, or the sight of the perm I had as a college freshman. Many of these things I held onto because of their association with pleasant people or events: a ribbon from someone's bridal shower, a ticket stub from a concert, a piece of wood from a magnificent old tree that was chopped down when I was in high school.
But the things are not the people. The things are not the memories. How much of the past do I have to cling to with visible reminders? How much of it can I let settle inside me, and trust that it has become part of me?
These are the questions I've been asking.
As I said before, I'd been operating in a sort of save-everything default mode. The best thing this decluttering project has done for me is to make me more mindful of what I'm accumulating in the first place. Until now, I would keep everything unless I could convince myself there was a good reason to discard it. Now my philosophy is to question everything, to justify keeping rather than discarding/donating it.
This has been eye-opening. Do I really need so many pairs of black socks? So many address labels, bookmarks, barrettes? Do I need all those business cards I've been saving--how many of those people will I contact again? These pants that will probably never fit again? This expired medication? These train schedules that are more than a decade old? This game I never play? This watch that two different jewelers were unable to fix? These keys that match no lock I know of? My elementary-school report cards? My college ID?
Some of these are items that would be useful to a biographer. But let's face it, nobody will be writing my biography. And if they do, they'll just have to live without my third-grade teacher's appraisal of my penmanship, or the sight of the perm I had as a college freshman. Many of these things I held onto because of their association with pleasant people or events: a ribbon from someone's bridal shower, a ticket stub from a concert, a piece of wood from a magnificent old tree that was chopped down when I was in high school.
But the things are not the people. The things are not the memories. How much of the past do I have to cling to with visible reminders? How much of it can I let settle inside me, and trust that it has become part of me?
These are the questions I've been asking.
January 9, 2015
Adapting the advice
My decluttering process is following a mixture of advice from several sources, plus my own instinct and needs. There are many different ways to approach a cleanup of your living space (or life); a search of "decluttering" or "minimalism" will probably retrieve more links than you'd ever have time to read.
At the moment I'm influenced largely by Marie Kondo's The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up, and as I put my own twist on things, I found myself feeling slightly guilty for not doing things exactly as she recommends. And then I reminded myself that this is my living space, and I can do things any way I want. If I don't achieve perfect order, that's okay with me. The progress I've been making is amazing, even though I've only tackled about a fifth of what I eventually hope to do. The difference between where I started and where I am now is big enough that even if I were to stop here, I could say that I've made significant and satisfying improvements.
Sometimes I used to watch a show in which people got surprise makeovers of rooms in their houses. It always annoyed me when the designers on the show ignored the clearly stated wishes and pet peeves of the homeowners. (Interestingly, all the designers seemed to have a gut-level aversion to ceiling fans. Any time I saw a ceiling fan on that show, I knew the designer was going to yank it out, even if the homeowner wanted it to stay.)
The designer had a vision, but the homeowner had to live there. A room is not just something to look at: it's a place that needs to be comfortable and functional. And even--gasp--reflect the preferences of its inhabitants. Including the ability to feel the refreshing breeze from a ceiling fan on a hot summer night.
It all reminds me of writing, too. There's an abundance of writing advice out there, and we tailor it to our own tastes and abilities. We have to be able to live with the end result.
At the moment I'm influenced largely by Marie Kondo's The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up, and as I put my own twist on things, I found myself feeling slightly guilty for not doing things exactly as she recommends. And then I reminded myself that this is my living space, and I can do things any way I want. If I don't achieve perfect order, that's okay with me. The progress I've been making is amazing, even though I've only tackled about a fifth of what I eventually hope to do. The difference between where I started and where I am now is big enough that even if I were to stop here, I could say that I've made significant and satisfying improvements.
Sometimes I used to watch a show in which people got surprise makeovers of rooms in their houses. It always annoyed me when the designers on the show ignored the clearly stated wishes and pet peeves of the homeowners. (Interestingly, all the designers seemed to have a gut-level aversion to ceiling fans. Any time I saw a ceiling fan on that show, I knew the designer was going to yank it out, even if the homeowner wanted it to stay.)
The designer had a vision, but the homeowner had to live there. A room is not just something to look at: it's a place that needs to be comfortable and functional. And even--gasp--reflect the preferences of its inhabitants. Including the ability to feel the refreshing breeze from a ceiling fan on a hot summer night.
It all reminds me of writing, too. There's an abundance of writing advice out there, and we tailor it to our own tastes and abilities. We have to be able to live with the end result.
January 7, 2015
I thought I was going someplace else
Letting go is not only a process of discarding objects, but of shedding expectations and illusions. When things don't turn out as we expect, when the path takes an unexpected hairpin turn--what then?
We can keep aiming for the original destination, even if it means fighting through the nettles and vines and trenches.
Or we can let go of the original destination (for at least a while, maybe longer), and follow the road to see where it is going.
We can keep aiming for the original destination, even if it means fighting through the nettles and vines and trenches.
Or we can let go of the original destination (for at least a while, maybe longer), and follow the road to see where it is going.
January 3, 2015
Simple, not easy
Katie Klein recently reminded me about the blog becomingminimalist.com, and I particularly like this post. Especially, "Your decluttering journey is not a race," and, "Don’t let perfect become the enemy of better. The first time you go through your home, you won’t remove all the clutter. You’ll keep stuff that didn’t need to be kept. ... You may even remove a thing or two you’ll end up wishing you had kept. But you will make progress."
I was reading a bunch of blogs on minimalism and decluttering, and I became aware that it is possible to get perfectionistic and competitive (as with anything in life, I suppose). For me, decluttering is an attempt to simplify, to make my life more relaxed, not more rigid. So I won't make rules about exactly how much stuff I will discard or keep, or exactly when I will do it. As long as I'm still making progress and feeling good about the changes, I'll continue as steadily as I can.
I've also seen some recommendations to convert as much as possible to digital. I have mixed feelings about this. For some people, I'm sure that going digital is a useful decluttering tool. Digital books and files surely take up less physical space than their paper equivalents. And I'll always be grateful for the ease in revising, copying, and distributing digital documents--to me, this is the major advantage of a computer over a typewriter.
But for storage and for actionable documents (such as bills), I personally don't find digital to be The Answer. Aside from the security issues, I actually find paper documents easier to manage, easier to track, easier to see. One thing I'm noticing about the simplified organizational methods I'm encountering is that they recommend storing your stuff in such a way that it's all visible at a glance, to keep things simple and accessible. For me, that means paper files rather than computer files. In fact, digital clutter is as much of a problem for me as physical-object clutter. I have lots of stuff on my computer that I just want to clear out. (Apparently I'm not alone. Colleen Mondor at Chasing Ray blogged about digital clutter issues such as "e-hoarding" and paring down email.) Digital may be the solution for many people; if so, more power to them. But I see the potential for digital clutter to be a problem, too.
For me, having to hold on to a document at all is a much bigger issue than whether I'm storing it physicall or digitally. Either method of storage is a small weight on my mind; it's another thing to keep track of. I'm best served by keeping only what I need.
And for writers, documents are a big deal, whether they're paper or digital. Not only do we have stories and story ideas and research notes and character sketches and critique notes and everything connected with the creative process, we also have contracts and receipts and royalty statements and business cards and tax documents and various items associated with the business side. I've decided that dealing with these papers will be a little farther down my list of priorities. First I'm tackling low-hanging fruit like clothes and shoes and linens. Books will be another tough category to weed, but I return to the reminder I quoted at the top of this blog post. It's not a race, and all I have to do is keep making progress.
I was reading a bunch of blogs on minimalism and decluttering, and I became aware that it is possible to get perfectionistic and competitive (as with anything in life, I suppose). For me, decluttering is an attempt to simplify, to make my life more relaxed, not more rigid. So I won't make rules about exactly how much stuff I will discard or keep, or exactly when I will do it. As long as I'm still making progress and feeling good about the changes, I'll continue as steadily as I can.
I've also seen some recommendations to convert as much as possible to digital. I have mixed feelings about this. For some people, I'm sure that going digital is a useful decluttering tool. Digital books and files surely take up less physical space than their paper equivalents. And I'll always be grateful for the ease in revising, copying, and distributing digital documents--to me, this is the major advantage of a computer over a typewriter.
But for storage and for actionable documents (such as bills), I personally don't find digital to be The Answer. Aside from the security issues, I actually find paper documents easier to manage, easier to track, easier to see. One thing I'm noticing about the simplified organizational methods I'm encountering is that they recommend storing your stuff in such a way that it's all visible at a glance, to keep things simple and accessible. For me, that means paper files rather than computer files. In fact, digital clutter is as much of a problem for me as physical-object clutter. I have lots of stuff on my computer that I just want to clear out. (Apparently I'm not alone. Colleen Mondor at Chasing Ray blogged about digital clutter issues such as "e-hoarding" and paring down email.) Digital may be the solution for many people; if so, more power to them. But I see the potential for digital clutter to be a problem, too.
For me, having to hold on to a document at all is a much bigger issue than whether I'm storing it physicall or digitally. Either method of storage is a small weight on my mind; it's another thing to keep track of. I'm best served by keeping only what I need.
And for writers, documents are a big deal, whether they're paper or digital. Not only do we have stories and story ideas and research notes and character sketches and critique notes and everything connected with the creative process, we also have contracts and receipts and royalty statements and business cards and tax documents and various items associated with the business side. I've decided that dealing with these papers will be a little farther down my list of priorities. First I'm tackling low-hanging fruit like clothes and shoes and linens. Books will be another tough category to weed, but I return to the reminder I quoted at the top of this blog post. It's not a race, and all I have to do is keep making progress.
January 1, 2015
Enough
One thing we loved about this house when we bought it was its abundance of storage space. The big closets, built-in drawers and shelves sure come in handy.
The downside of all that storage space is that you can hold on to a lot of stuff without even realizing it.
Today I cleaned out some drawers that, I realized, I hadn't touched since we moved in more than a decade ago. At least one object, a novelty key chain, I had no memory of ever seeing before. Obviously I stuck it in the drawer as soon as I got it, not knowing what else to do with it, and there it has resided ever since.
My philosophy today was, "If I haven't even looked at this stuff in all these years, I have no need to hold onto it now."
I've been surprised by the amount of stuff I have, because--except for books--I don't really buy a lot. I rarely shop. I don't salivate over material goods. But I'm realizing that I have a lot of stuff not because I buy frequently, but because almost everything that has come into this house over the years has stayed here. I rarely got rid of anything.
Letting go of all this stuff now is alternately freeing and anxiety-producing. I think that one reason we stockpile things and cling to them is out of a fear of scarcity, a fear that our needs won't be met, that we won't have enough. I'm speaking here of emotional needs too, not just material ones.
After weeding bagsful from my closet, I have been rejoicing in its cleaner, less cluttered appearance. There seems to be more breathing room. Some items were really a delight to shed: items I wasn't wearing anymore, but felt guilty for not wearing because they were still in good shape. And even though I felt some pangs of anxiety about the volume of material I was eliminating, I also marveled at how much I have left. When I arranged my clothes so that I could see all of them, and I took stock of what I actually have, I realized that I have plenty. I have enough.
The downside of all that storage space is that you can hold on to a lot of stuff without even realizing it.
Today I cleaned out some drawers that, I realized, I hadn't touched since we moved in more than a decade ago. At least one object, a novelty key chain, I had no memory of ever seeing before. Obviously I stuck it in the drawer as soon as I got it, not knowing what else to do with it, and there it has resided ever since.
My philosophy today was, "If I haven't even looked at this stuff in all these years, I have no need to hold onto it now."
I've been surprised by the amount of stuff I have, because--except for books--I don't really buy a lot. I rarely shop. I don't salivate over material goods. But I'm realizing that I have a lot of stuff not because I buy frequently, but because almost everything that has come into this house over the years has stayed here. I rarely got rid of anything.
Letting go of all this stuff now is alternately freeing and anxiety-producing. I think that one reason we stockpile things and cling to them is out of a fear of scarcity, a fear that our needs won't be met, that we won't have enough. I'm speaking here of emotional needs too, not just material ones.
After weeding bagsful from my closet, I have been rejoicing in its cleaner, less cluttered appearance. There seems to be more breathing room. Some items were really a delight to shed: items I wasn't wearing anymore, but felt guilty for not wearing because they were still in good shape. And even though I felt some pangs of anxiety about the volume of material I was eliminating, I also marveled at how much I have left. When I arranged my clothes so that I could see all of them, and I took stock of what I actually have, I realized that I have plenty. I have enough.
December 29, 2014
Letting go, clearing space
My post at YAOTL this month celebrated the beauty of holiday breaks, and the restfulness (for many of us) of this week before New Year's. I am generally not good at letting go of the holidays, returning to the hectic routines of regular life. I am not good at letting go in general.
But 2014 was a year of letting go. Things I had hoped for didn't happen. Things I'd had once could not be kept. I also began seriously decluttering my physical space--a project that will take quite a while, but I can see improvements already. I became willing to let go of some things I've been accumulating and holding onto all my life.
People my age often have grandparents who lived through the Great Depression. And while my own grandparents were not hoarders, I did know of what I call "Depression hoarders." These were people who had survived that era when you had to save everything--every bit of string, every scrap of soap--and even when times improved, they were unable to shed their fear of waste and impoverishment. So they never threw anything away, and their homes filled with stuff. People who cleaned their houses after Depression hoarders had passed on described the stacks of newspapers, the piles of cans, the balls of rubber bands. The glass jars and even the plastic microwave trays and styrofoam packaging.
I am not a Depression-style hoarder, but I don't like waste and I have kept things "just in case" or "because they're too good to get rid of." One thing I've been gaining, though, is the willingness to let things go. I used to think that if something came into my life, I was obligated to hold onto it until it disintegrated. Which explains why my recent cleaning efforts have turned up shoes I haven't worn in 10 years, clothing I haven't worn in 20. A gag gift someone gave me in college that has been gathering dust on the top shelf of my closet. A picture I clipped out of a newspaper back when the Berlin Wall was still standing. Electrical bills from the apartment I lived in before I got married.
I'm clearing things out because it will give me breathing room, but also because I'm hoping to have more room for new things in my life in 2015.
But 2014 was a year of letting go. Things I had hoped for didn't happen. Things I'd had once could not be kept. I also began seriously decluttering my physical space--a project that will take quite a while, but I can see improvements already. I became willing to let go of some things I've been accumulating and holding onto all my life.
People my age often have grandparents who lived through the Great Depression. And while my own grandparents were not hoarders, I did know of what I call "Depression hoarders." These were people who had survived that era when you had to save everything--every bit of string, every scrap of soap--and even when times improved, they were unable to shed their fear of waste and impoverishment. So they never threw anything away, and their homes filled with stuff. People who cleaned their houses after Depression hoarders had passed on described the stacks of newspapers, the piles of cans, the balls of rubber bands. The glass jars and even the plastic microwave trays and styrofoam packaging.
I am not a Depression-style hoarder, but I don't like waste and I have kept things "just in case" or "because they're too good to get rid of." One thing I've been gaining, though, is the willingness to let things go. I used to think that if something came into my life, I was obligated to hold onto it until it disintegrated. Which explains why my recent cleaning efforts have turned up shoes I haven't worn in 10 years, clothing I haven't worn in 20. A gag gift someone gave me in college that has been gathering dust on the top shelf of my closet. A picture I clipped out of a newspaper back when the Berlin Wall was still standing. Electrical bills from the apartment I lived in before I got married.
I'm clearing things out because it will give me breathing room, but also because I'm hoping to have more room for new things in my life in 2015.
December 27, 2014
Carpe diem
I had a whole list of things to do today, and I did a few of them, but then the woods beckoned. It was another sunny, blue-skied day after a long stretch of what had felt like (and maybe was) weeks of dreary grayness. And tomorrow the rain returns.
So I left some of my indoor chores undone. I went on a hike with my husband and our local hiking club. Stretched the legs, enjoyed the sun and the scent of earth and the quiet trees biding their time until spring, and the song of a white-throated sparrow (thanks, Cliff, for telling us what that was). Seized the day.
So I left some of my indoor chores undone. I went on a hike with my husband and our local hiking club. Stretched the legs, enjoyed the sun and the scent of earth and the quiet trees biding their time until spring, and the song of a white-throated sparrow (thanks, Cliff, for telling us what that was). Seized the day.
December 22, 2014
Festive links
Here are some festive links, for a holiday mood, whatever and however you celebrate:
Nathan Bransford's annual fundraiser for Heifer International, where all you have to do is comment on his blog post and/or tweet the hashtag #NBHeifer on Twitter (he pledges $2 per tweet or comment). I will also be donating a flat amount myself.
A white winter's walk in the woods, for those of us missing snow, from LizzieBelle
A post about the joy our furry friends can bring (and ways for us to give back), from Alissa Grosso at YA Outside the Lines
Wishing you peace and joy!
Nathan Bransford's annual fundraiser for Heifer International, where all you have to do is comment on his blog post and/or tweet the hashtag #NBHeifer on Twitter (he pledges $2 per tweet or comment). I will also be donating a flat amount myself.
A white winter's walk in the woods, for those of us missing snow, from LizzieBelle
A post about the joy our furry friends can bring (and ways for us to give back), from Alissa Grosso at YA Outside the Lines
Wishing you peace and joy!
December 20, 2014
Two quotes
"What a strange feeling to be done with [writing] The Book. It had weighed so like a stone these many years, you'd think I'd be tripping about in ecstatic jubilation. But I felt rootless. Empty. Lost. I sunk into a slough of discombobulation."
"I sighed. It just might be that The Book was unpublishable.
I wasn't feeling sorry for myself. I had gotten the job done, I was proud of it ... Besides, I had found myself through the arduous writing process. Even if we were never able to publish our book, I had discovered my raison d'etre in life, and would continue my self-training and teaching."
Both of these are from Julia Child's My Life in France, and capture pretty well some of the emotions associated with finishing a manuscript and receiving early rejections.
Been there, done that. Probably most writers have!
(By the way, "The Book" she was referring to is Mastering the Art of French Cooking, which not only did get published, but became a classic in its field.)
"I sighed. It just might be that The Book was unpublishable.
I wasn't feeling sorry for myself. I had gotten the job done, I was proud of it ... Besides, I had found myself through the arduous writing process. Even if we were never able to publish our book, I had discovered my raison d'etre in life, and would continue my self-training and teaching."
Both of these are from Julia Child's My Life in France, and capture pretty well some of the emotions associated with finishing a manuscript and receiving early rejections.
Been there, done that. Probably most writers have!
(By the way, "The Book" she was referring to is Mastering the Art of French Cooking, which not only did get published, but became a classic in its field.)
