Home Sweet Home

Pixabay

This time last week, we were in Connecticut with a kid and her carload of stuff. 

Now we're home and making progress. 

Sort of. 

I expected it to take a while before everything found a home, and, on that front, my daughter is ahead of schedule. 

I didn't expect that when my young adult daughter moved back in she'd launch into a full-scale attack on her childhood bedroom. I'm grateful.

But overwhelmed. 

In less than a week, she has generated piles of clothes and toys to donate, and, as I write this, she's tackling her bookshelves. More toys remain to be thinned, and my job is figuring out where it all goes. 

I was prepared to figure out where the carload of stuff that came home would live for the summer, but this is something altogether different--something that stirs pride and exhaustion in nearly equal measures. 

Our daughter is an only child, one who has always had what she needed and much of what she wanted. Still, we've tried to raise her to understand how fortunate she is to have had that kind of upbringing. And now, watching her let go of the excess, culling the things that matter and releasing the rest, I'm not only impressed by her drive to organize.

I feel as though perhaps we've done something right.

Last week, I wrote that this transition would "inspire changes, as transitions usually do," a statement that turned out to be oddly prophetic.

Little did I know how lovely it would be to watch my I love stuff kid morph into a young adult who can distinguish trash from treasure and decide which stuff to toss, which stuff to repurpose and which stuff to donate in order to create the best of all organizing bonuses.

Clear space.