rummaging for a simpler life

Once upon a time I lived in Paris. I had a room in a row house in the 15th arrondissement. I lived with a young family who were aristocracy. Count and countess, in fact. By French standards, they were wealthy. They owned a house in Paris and a castle in the countryside. By American standards, you'd never know it.

My rich French family did not own a car, a dishwasher, a clothes dryer, an excess of clothing, furniture, toys or stuff. My rich French family took public transportation, bought the day's bread and milk fresh every morning like the peasants, made meals from scratch, conserved water, wore outfits 3-4 days in a row before wearing something new. My rich French family ate dinner together every night, never watched TV, bought nothing other than food in the six months I lived with them (that I know of), wrote letters by hand, spent free time taking walks, riding horses, reading books and engaging in lively discussions.

My first month in Paris I thought my French family was rather poor. I learned a lot about simplicity, modesty and what it means to be rich. I still have a lot to learn.

This week is the semi-annual rummage sale at our church. I love helping to sort for this sale. It is amazing to see the piles of castoffs that get offered up. Tables piled high with clothes, dishes, frames, craft supplies, books, toys, and on and on. A bargain shopper's paradise.

Before every sale I pillage our cabinets and closets collecting items outgrown and unused to donate. Twice a year I fill the back of our car with a load of stuff. And yet our space is still anything but simplified. There are too many outgrown and unused items I can't bear to part with. It would take 20 trips to cart all the extras away. I hate the clutter and the overstuffed closets but I struggle to let go.

Today when a friend unloaded a box she lugged into the sale, she asked, "Do you have a hard time parting with baby clothes?"

"I haven't done it, yet," I admitted. Then I felt silly.

It's pretty plain that I won't be having any more babies but the idea of donating all those precious clothes kills me. I pretend to give them up by lending them out, but I always ask for them back. And yet, if they were destroyed in a fire or flood, I don't think I'd shed a tear. I am not a crazy pack rat and I long for the life my French family led. Some days I think I am so close. The truth is, it's a long way down and, like an 8 year old on the high dive, I am just not brave enough to take the plunge.

Little by little, however, I get closer to the edge. Sale by sale I whittle away. I give away more and more. I bring home less and less. And deep down I know that someday I'm going to live like a rich person in Paris: lighter, happier, freer. In case you don't recognize me, I'll be the girl eating a warm baguette, wearing the same outfit I had on the day before. Of course, I'll have a scarf, cute shoes and a cafe au lait. And, hopefully, a view of the Eiffel Tower.