The Lonely Writer’s Companion

by Lisa Lenard-Cook

September 2012

Cleaning House

There is nothing like a move for rediscovering what you own—and what owns you. After a record ten years in the same house, we just moved across the Rio Grande, and, while I’m not a packrat, I was surprised by just how much I’d managed to accumulate during those years.

First, of course, there were the books. The house we moved from had built-in bookcases—fun to fill, hard to emulate right away. Thus it came to pass that I held each book in my hand, asking myself if I needed it—whether for research, for love, or for nostalgia. Nostalgia lost out. The librarians at the Corrales Community Library accepted carton after carton. Jerry at the Book Stop in Albuquerque purchased several dozen extraordinary finds, laughing when I insisted on a check rather than a trade that would have given me more of a return—but also more books. Bob hauled several cartons to Under Charlie’s Covers in Bernalillo, where we now how have a trade credit that will last us into our next lifetimes. In the last week before the move, I delivered several teetering stacks of Bob’s dog-eared paperbacks to the animal rescue resale shop in Corrales. And yet, despite all this divesting, many books made the move with us. But you’re a writer—you understand the book thing.

I also—and this is perhaps indicative of the landmark birthday that occurred between the time we sold one house and bought another—went through a wicker chest that since I was fourteen has steadily filled with the cards, letters, invitations, and thank you notes that, in their way, documented my life. I’d gone through that chest every time we moved (which used to be far more often), but had never been able to toss much. This time, I looked at each item and imagined my daughter Kait doing the same thing, some day in the future. Then I let each remind me of its story one last time. The notes from my ninth grade boyfriend that still smelled faintly of his cologne (English Leather?)—gone. The flowery birthday sentiments favored by my grandmother—recycled. Invitations to weddings that have long since ended in divorce. Thank you notes from people who were transitorily important, or for gifts I no longer remember giving. It felt good—both the last walk-through, and the letting-go. I’ve moved on, after all these years, literally and figuratively.

What I’ve discovered as I unpack what I boxed several months ago is that (except for a box of hand-blown glasses that must have gone to the consignment store in Corrales, because it’s not here) I did a good job at the other end. Every time I’ve unwrapped something, I’ve remembered either where I first discovered it, when (and often, why) Kait (an artist) made or painted it, or, in the case of books and papers, why these particular stories were worth keeping.

Because that’s what it all comes down to, if you’re a writer: story. Dreams often feature houses because their many rooms represent our own mysterious minds,, and a move, of necessity, demands that we clean house, deciding which stories we want to keep, and which it’s time to leave behind. Do you find yourself holding on to things for reasons you no longer recall, or have you cleaned house?

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