Synchronistically, a couple of visitors last weekend asked if they could make off with a few of my things. First was a wooden dinosaur pull-toy on the porch that someone wanted for his nephew. Another visitor asked if I'd read that bio of Alan Watts yet. I said no...but my interest in Alan Watts faded several decades ago – take it away. Then he really liked a green-man mug I'd got in Glastonbury. You like it? - it's yours.
Synchronistically because I'd been thinking I needed to start getting rid of stuff and, that weekend being Samhain, our Pagan celebration of death, I was going to bring up the subject, tell people to look around and if they wanted anything, take it.
Sad to say, now that I have my house almost finished, and almost perfectly filled with neat junk, I'm realizing that feebleness and death are not that far in my future. Having cleaned out a couple of houses after the death of my father and my husband, I really don't want to leave that awful task to someone.
I read once about a family who went with dread to their deceased mother's place to deal with *stuff*, and they started in the kitchen – opened a cupboard and found one plate, one glass, one cup. Sigh. If I'm going to emulate that thoughtful lady, I got a long ways to go... For starters, I have a back-up green-man mug...
I might need to empty the house anyway because I'm beginning to think about becoming too feeble to stay on top of things and should find some other place to live. There are lots and lots of stubborn old people out in even more obscure corners of the county, but I think the sensible thing would be to move. There's a trailer park very close to the hospital (and grocery, etc.) in a nearby town.
But then, if I leave my beloved house and land, why move to a nearby town? I love spring and fall, but summer and winter are miserable. Why not move to one of those areas in B.C. where it's like spring and fall all year round?
The other morning was cloudy with suspended rain, what my late husband called a scotch mist, and only a few degrees above freezing. Forget spring & fall - I really like weather like this. Wearing clothes feels nice and I can work for hours, invigorated. Not needing protection from the sun. So it occurred to me – a crazy thought, I know – that maybe I should move to the land of my ancestors, they whose DNA is responsible for my thinking that scotch mist and gloom and near-freezing temps make for a desirable environment.
At one time, I seem to remember, Scotland was offering a welcome to its stray sons & daughters. Of course, that may have been for former citizens who had emigrated, not for someone whose forebears have been in Canada for quite a few generations. And, whatever things I might like about Scotland, I would be lonely, not knowing anyone and trying to find my way around in a different culture.
I would have to stay far away from Glasgow, where I can't understand them when they speak.
And be somewhere near an Indian restaurant because, well, Scottish cuisine leaves something to be desired. Actually, a LOT to be desired.
I wonder if Findhorn is still going?
Come to think of it, I actually like England better. Cuter buildings, cosier landscape and, boiled peas and spotted dick notwithstanding, better food. And, I have to admit, better climate.
Sigh. I'll probably just squat here until it's too late and die surrounded by weird junk and hundreds of unread books. Apologies in advance to my offspring – but cleaning out houses is what survivors are for.