I read an essay in the middle of the night by a writer about seriously editing her possessions.  Like most of us, she's approaching an age when getting rid of stuff is a kindness to those who may be left behind not having a clue what to do with it all.  

While I do that on a fairly regular basis, I realized that I could happily shop for Christmas and birthday presents in my own house.  What was once new to me could be new for a while to someone else, then passed on.  

In one of May Sarton's journals, she wrote (at sixty): "I used to be acquisitive, now I'm not."  I'm not quite there yet, but what I do acquire has to replace something sold or given away. 

In a way, every house is a museum, art show, or stage--an exhibit that reflects the pleasures of the people who live in it.  Mine is a small stage.  Certain objects dance on the stage for a while and then they bow and I clap, but I leave them onstage as reminders: of a trip to New England, a trip to Taos, a trip to Italy 20 years ago.  Each is precious to me, but will my souvenirs  be precious to people who have their own travels to remember, their own taste to display? 

I have photographs, postcards, bowls, jewelry, and fabric I bought in France years ago but never made anything out of.   Each object gave me pleasure and delight.  

When I do travel, or used to, I stop in little shops and galleries and usually purchase something to capture the spirit of the trip. Here's a doll I bought in the mountains in October: 

The writer of the essay discovered in her purging that she had 25 dish towels and she reduced the number to ten.  The drawer opened and closed more easily.  She felt lighter when she added 15 dish towels to the boxes of never-used silver and crystal in the basement for give-away. 

On the uphill side of life, we acquire new things.  We're imagining the life we'll have and what we'll need for that imaginary stage.  On the downhill side, we realize that the imagined life and the real life never entirely merged for one reason or another and we have to decide what to do with the parts that no longer fit.

I used to imagine giving dinner parties for one thing-- because that's what people do. Some call it "entertaining," though that word always conjures the image of dancing on a table and singing a ditty.  I have provided occasional meals for my family over the years, but I have never hosted a dinner party.  

It's taken me a while to figure out that I'm just not that person.  I'd rather just sit on a porch and have a drink and a cookie with one person at a time.  

Today I am visiting with friends on the phone and watching Luci sit by the tree.  I got myself a turkey dinner from Bill Miller's and we are happy in our quiet little space.