I'm sitting in my cabin. That is, my screen porch. It's early and it's 65 degrees and the air is crisp. Minnesota morning. Birds are singing. We spent the weekend at Bill's folk's cabin, nick named Eagle's Wings, for the Biblical reference. I slept and perused a book by Dale Mulfinger call Cabinology. Beautiful photos of Minnesota dream cabins, most of them small but very thoughtfully created. The glorification of a simple shell to live in, a cabin, seems almost bred in our bones.
When we were 20, Casey's dad came to visit us in our skanky roach infested apartment in Austin, TX. He had left his job, left his wife and family, and taken up with the world at large. He had some small nap sack in which he carried his things. We were poor college students and wanted everything--a descent place to live, clothes, a car--the world seemed like nothing but a place to somehow get the things we needed. He told us (he was larger than life) that once you have all that stuff you might find you don't need it anymore. He was off the rails, but he put his money where his mouth was. Stuff was never again important to him. I never forgot that.
Later in Austin I had my own garage apartment. It was cute. Mine. Alone. Most of time there were no roaches. I shopped flee markets for furniture and decorations. The wicker sofa still here on my porch was my first purchase. The city-wide garage sale was my haunt. Friday was my work day. I would put laundry in the outdoor machine my landlord provided, clean my three rooms from top to bottom, run my car through a neighborhood car wash with vacuuming, come home and finish the laundry. I was done by 3:00. Everything in my life tidy. A simple shell.
Not so anymore. I seem to have gotten all the stuff I wanted. My stuff smothers me. My kids' stuff smothers me. I fantasize of a simpler day. Now I have a three bedroom house and studio, three quarters of an acre of yard to maintain, and I can't remember that last time I vacuumed my suburban SUV. The basement is a mystery zone. Calvin and Mary have more toys than they have time to play with, and we have more CDs on the shelf than we have time to listen to.
A high-class problem. The suburban American curse of abundance. I don't think we Kotrbas are alone, I look around and even friends who complain that they can't pay their bills seem to have too much stuff. It isn't really even about money.
In some ways Bill losing his job is a blessing. An excuse to go on spending moratorium. Calvin's birthday is next week and short of his gifts, we're done buying things for awhile. Time to take a breath and take care of the things we have.
I don't mean to sound ungrateful. We are so blessed. There isn't some quick fix. I love my home. I love my yard. Gardening is my only hobby. I love small furry animals. I just want the things around me to be beautiful and functional. It is a process. Keep what is special and pass on the rest. For those of us with mild OCD it isn't easy to sit on the porch on a summer morning and listen to the birds while there is a heap of stuff to process just 15 feet away in the pantry.
Right now there is no cabinology, there is no simple shell, no Austin garage apartment where the piano takes up the whole living room. There are two kids, three cats, a bunny, a fish and a heck of a lot of weeds. And one clear morning on the porch.
Thank you Lord, for these blessings. Help me to be grateful and discerning. Help me be a good steward of your gifts. Show me ways to share what we have with others in a way that blesses them. Bless this house and this yard and these children and pets--let them be a blessing to others as well. Amen.
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