Chuck and I are preparing for the upcoming move to Los Angeles. Plan A was to get a storage pod and have it shipped out. But Chuck surprised me with Plan B the other morning which is to sell what we can’t fit in our cars. I realize most people would not see the gift of that proposition, but I am titillated by the complete expression of a fresh start that we will be able to create together–and I didn’t even ask!
The studio is definitely the most challenging area. My process has been refined over the last 3 years to the point that it isn’t hard to point to the tools that I actually use. So, the balance comes in space vs. cost and ease to replace.
One thing that I had planned on keeping and taking in the pod are my monster 3′ x 6′ cutting mats. I knew I wouldn’t be taking the 6′ x 6′ table that I built to hold these babies. My left brain knows it is a good decision because I’m not absolutely sure that I can ship them without damaging them. Also, my new studio won’t be a dedicated space, and I know I will have to move these around and they are HEAVY. But my left brain knows how awesome it is to work on such a spacious surface.
I’m still on the fence about my Sew Perfect table. I know I will end up designing a unique table to maximize the potential of my new space, but the table that I own lets me work right away.
I am keeping the plexiglas templates that I had made to cut out the hospital quilts. They are relatively light weight and really are necessary for me to work large. I had planned to let my saw go, but because of space, I’ll be selling my air compressor, too. Both of these items are easily replaceable. I am going to try to keep my nail gun–it is small and really fits my had and my brother gave it to me.
It is interesting to see where the emotional connections to stuff lie. At home, we are on the fence with our wedding clothes. I’ve been wanting to get rid of them for a long time, but Chuck can’t seem to.
In previous layers, I have been able to dump my yearbooks and my one share of Green Bay Packer stock. This time around, go the diplomas, my diving log book, baby records, and the mound of cards that Chuck and I have given each other over the years. I did keep that original personal ad that hooked me, though. A whole file drawer was reduced to about an inch and half of paper. We don’t have time now, but the plan is to get a paperless scanning system and dump the rest.
Why does it take a move to get rid of worthless paper? I don’t need the bank statements from three years ago. I have gotten very good at organizing the detritus of my life. But what would my life look like if I didn’t have the detritus? Is it possible to live without accumulating little bits of stuff that live at the bottom of drawers? I sure hope so. I guess I won’t really know until I move the next time!