Spring Cleaning

Technically it's Spring. Though the flakes of snow whip through the early morning air, blanketing the urban concrete floor, the season attempts to peak through the crystalline rain. I'm missing the psychological triggers that typically accompany the season's character. Like a drooling Pavlov's dog, I usually begin my spurts of Spring Cleaning at the first whiff of a neighbor's trimmed lawn, the sound of bees gingerly pressing the new perennial flowers for pollen, and the first warm rain brightened by bolts of lightening. This year, I have to force the tradition on myself. It feels slightly unnatural to begin Spring Cleaning when the season hasn't quite emerged, like eating dinner before a friend has arrived.

I decided that the big items have got to go. I want to travel lighter than usual to my next destination, an unknown plain of existence not yet even materialized in my mind.

So I begin with my clothing. Piles and piles of clothing. Most of it, I decided to hoard for the time that I lose a bit of weight. It's been two years since I made that decision. Time to let go.
There are mounds of shirts, skirts, sweaters, and pants that I've owned since the days following high school graduation. They provide nostalgia as I unfold shirts that I wore when I was of a younger mindset. Opening them before me, like unfurling a flag, I move my fingers along the lines of stitching. Most of them were still in decent shape. I remember when the cloth hugged my hips and curved with my waist. I remember the people I once spent time with while wearing these clothes. They represent what I once was, the person that has since grown and matured.

I grab several plastic bags and shove the old clothes inside. Bag after bag fills to the rim with clothes that Young Candice loved and looked fantastic in. They're not me anymore, though. A pile of bags form in the corner of my bedroom and my closet is nearly empty. Two small piles of clothes that I currently wear remained. They look somewhat pathetic in their small numbers, but I remind myself of the practicality of keeping only those that I actually use.

One pile for donating to the thrift store, one pile to see if my mom wants them, and one pile for the things that I keep, each pile smaller than the last, line the walls of my bedroom. Following hours of investigating what I love, what I need, and what others can use, I feel exhausted. I look at the piles of bags I will be donating to the C.A.R.E. thrift store and feel a sting in my chest. It's like I was removing a part of myself, denying the old of me that I can no longer relate to. Am I really that different of a person?

It's been seven years since I first purchased the majority of these clothes I no longer use. Since then, I've become more conscious of who I am. Since then, I've learned so much about the world. Since then, I've loved and lost. Since then, I've given myself the chance to become someone I can be proud of.

I'm not a kid anymore. At one point, I couldn't wait to grow up. Now, I kind of want to hold that childlike mindset again. Can't I have both?

The Stink of Subjugation

How the hell do nomadic tribes do it? I wonder about the Maasai of Kenya, the Mbuti of the Ituri Rain Forest, or the Gypsies. How do they manage to divorce themselves from the items of the world that become theirs? Their possessions do not anchor them into the earth. Are they even aware of the concept of possessions? From what I've read in Turnbull's book, The Forest People, the Mbuti pygmies travel light and travel often. There's definitely something freeing about that lifestyle. The people are not exempt from tribal customs or the (sometimes deadly) punishment of ostracism for breaking certain unspoken rules, but they operate freely, without government, without religion, and without the obligation to "settle down." Indeed, if they did, they would probably die off rather quickly.

I realize as the time and the days escape my grasp that my lease with my apartment will be up soon. As I stand amongst my possessions inside my room, dwindled in size due to my expanding list of effects, I feel burdened. This cultural phenomenon, to keep things that are impractical and unnecessary, to put things on the walls for decoration, to hoard useless stuff out of a sense of nostalgia, to be "better" than someone else by owning more things, to fill each room with decor that becomes background noise, is only appealing to those who are comfortable with settling. These things serve me no purpose. Clothing for function and some for  socially appropriate occasions, utensils for cooking and eating, a place for rest, one laptop for work and play, and cherished books are really all I need. (Oh, and my cat, Bowie, of course!)

So why do I see bags upon bags, boxes upon boxes, stacked higher and higher containing useless property?

Smell that? Sniff. That's the stench of stagnation. Sniff. The scent of complacency. Sniff, sniff. The stink of subjugation.

This smell is making me choke.