After moving into the Airstream, Lauren and I've had to get rid of a lot of stuff. But, as good as we are at living light, we still had to get a storage unit out in town. It felt a little like failure at the time, but it couldn't be helped.
So, we make regular quick visits to see if we can get rid of anything and recently it's been tough. It's felt like we need all that stuff. But today, during our scheduled visitation (like our stuff is the children of divorce, or in prison), we looked around and decided we could get rid of almost all of it. Something must of just snapped.
Our normal mental test is: if this thing was destroyed in a fire, would you really be that upset. As we turned in our little non-climate controlled space we realized, no, we wouldn't be upset if every twig in this place was turned to ash.
I think, for me, the keystone was my small box of old journals. Maybe it was a secret notion that they'd be posthumously published (except that they're rubbish). They're full of travelogues and unsent love letters to Lauren, notes to myself, notes during my photography lessons with Lauren's dad. And, I think, most valuable, were all the goals I'd written down, career goals, jobs I wouldn't mind doing when I was thirty-five. This is the only part of the journals that I'd keep for any reason other than vanity. But then I decided that writing down the goals was an exercise and to hold on to them is to give too much weight to my old opinions and to not leave enough room for new ones.
So, I'm tossing them all and writing this blog post to replace them. A small act of creation as direct result of an overdue act of destruction.