Moving as Marital Therapy
Moving day fast approaching, my husband and I have been sorting through the drawers and shelves, piles, closets, and basement clutter, making decisions about what is really necessary and important. He stresses me out, my husband: He bulldozes through everything with a trash bag, not recognizing, in my opinion, the keepsakes, the treasures, the items to which I am emotionally attached. I follow closely behind, balking and defending every precious scrap I wish to preserve. How can he not appreciate vintage kindergarten art? How can he not see the worth of a ragged stuffed animal or an old greeting card from long-forgotten friends? The hard work of moving is more emotional than physical. After ten moves in sixteen years of marriage, you'd think we'd have this forced bonding time down to a science.
I've managed to drag around excess baggage from house to house, but this time we plan on settling down for good in a beautiful home that deserves to be well-organized. Plus, it doesn't have a basement, so there's nowhere to hide my road-weary hoard. Like therapy, moving requires us to confront things we've long let pile up. Then we have to work through them, asking ourselves tough questions like, "How does this item enhance my life? Can I picture myself without it?" Generally, I've concluded that if I haven't used it/missed it/looked for it in the last three years, I can live without it. If that doesn't decide it, I try to picture where it will go in my next house.
Culling through sixteen years' worth of shared accumulation has had its highs and lows. When we mined out an old notebook from our pre-marital counseling sessions, we sat on the basement floor together marveling at the answers we wrote for the expectations we had for marriage and evaluating favorably how we've turned out so far. Later on, a passionate row ensued over a Japanese fisherman's life vest: I think it's priceless while he, of course, wants to throw it out. I rescued two wooden train whistles and a cassette tape from the outside trashcan and hid them after he had thrown them away. Other items have been granted a stay after I've persuaded him of their value. Some things he's convinced me to let go of. On an unmarked VHS tape, we found footage of the birth of our daughter. The only copy. We gathered 'round the popcorn bowl the next night for a home movie. The following day my husband was back at it, randomly chucking things out the door. And I was full-on close behind communicating effectively my thoughts and feelings.
I've managed to drag around excess baggage from house to house, but this time we plan on settling down for good in a beautiful home that deserves to be well-organized. Plus, it doesn't have a basement, so there's nowhere to hide my road-weary hoard. Like therapy, moving requires us to confront things we've long let pile up. Then we have to work through them, asking ourselves tough questions like, "How does this item enhance my life? Can I picture myself without it?" Generally, I've concluded that if I haven't used it/missed it/looked for it in the last three years, I can live without it. If that doesn't decide it, I try to picture where it will go in my next house.
Culling through sixteen years' worth of shared accumulation has had its highs and lows. When we mined out an old notebook from our pre-marital counseling sessions, we sat on the basement floor together marveling at the answers we wrote for the expectations we had for marriage and evaluating favorably how we've turned out so far. Later on, a passionate row ensued over a Japanese fisherman's life vest: I think it's priceless while he, of course, wants to throw it out. I rescued two wooden train whistles and a cassette tape from the outside trashcan and hid them after he had thrown them away. Other items have been granted a stay after I've persuaded him of their value. Some things he's convinced me to let go of. On an unmarked VHS tape, we found footage of the birth of our daughter. The only copy. We gathered 'round the popcorn bowl the next night for a home movie. The following day my husband was back at it, randomly chucking things out the door. And I was full-on close behind communicating effectively my thoughts and feelings.
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