In Donata's Kitchen

Entry #5

If you had but a moment to grab what you needed from your home before it was taken by fire.

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Katherine Fugate, author of some of my favorite Rom-Coms, Valentine’s Day and New Year’s Day, posed a prompt for today: What would you bring with you. 

It is not a new prompt in any sort of way, perhaps the first prompt and philosophical thought posed to us in our younger elementary years. She was prompted to make this a decision, not just a prompt, in real time thanks to the outbreak of fires near her home. She was forced  to pack and leave quickly. Though she poses the prompt virtually, the reality of it brings immediacy to even me as I sit here admiring the fog of a peaceful winter morning from the safety of my couch, in my living room, where the only fire is the flame from our main heat source.

I wonder though, if the reality of such a situation alludes me still. A this moment I can’t think of a thing that I would bring with me. 

People’s first inclination is to bring pictures. I’m not a picture gal. I hold memories in my heart, and in my head. I really don’t like having smiling faces peering at me from my bookshelf, or mantle, or piano top. This memorializes my loved ones in a way that is reminiscent of a funeral, like they’ve left me somehow. This makes empty nesting all too real. My daughter gave a watercolor of our dog to us for christmas, the pup had recently crossed the rainbow bridge thanks to aging and tumors. Every time I look at it I am both moved by feeling and nostalgia and made to feel sad and hopeless all over again. No, I don’t like pictures. And the reality is, I don’t take many pictures of people. When I’m with people I’m enraptured in the moment, overwhelmed even, and I don’t think of taking pictures, I think about how to stay engaged, how to navigate all the energies swirling around me, how to keep myself grounded enough to maintain conversation, how to keep everyone’s tea cup full. Or wine. Or coffee.

At the moment the most intriguing thing to me in my home is the sheet music I just purchased for choir. I would hate to lose that at this point. It has freshly penned notes. I need desperately to practice my 2nd Soprano part. I’ve just begun this vocal journey and would hate to see it end.

I am attached to none of the furniture in my home. Some has come from family, yes, but it has all aged and needs refinishing. Most has come second hand. Some was bought frivolously, on the cheap, bought quickly to fulfill the needs of entertaining a crowd. Other things, the fillers, were bought at thrift, because it was relatively cheap and fit the needs of my home. This sort of purchase is treated more like a short term decor solution, as my seasonal decor evolves, a revolving act between myself and my favorite thrift store.  I purchase things to suit my needs, then donate them back some months later. Then buy something different to replace that, and return that some months later. This revolution of decor supports my local Senior Center and I find no guilt in the process. 

I would not bring the chickens or turkeys with me. Nor the bunny. I have no guilt in admitting this. I’m over it. I’m over the poop. The noise. The smell. The worry. The unnecessary chores.

My piano is too big to bring with me, and I think to myself: people are always begging to give grand pianos away, so why bother trying to push that thing out.

My books. I realize that I can find what I need to read at the library. Why do I need to buy books? It really does seem like such a silly thing. Why do I need OWN and KEEP these books, as if they’re some sort of medal to my intelligence. I do love being in the presence of books but I am recognizing that it is not necessary. I once thought it would be fun to keep books handy as bibliotherapy. To gift to others who may find solace in the words within the pages as I once did. I rarely suggest a book to anyone though,  and I do realize that most of my close alliances would rather not accept advice from me anyway. No, I don’t need the books. I’ve studied what I need to study. I’ve read what I need to read. If I need to read it again I can, sadly, find the quote I want on the internet. Or, support my local library. Or buy it online used, and redonate it somewhere.

My kids things. I do still have boxes of my kids things. Baby books. School art. Articles. Reports. Trophies. Awards. Uniforms. Journals. Baby Blankets. A few toys. But what do they mean? What are they worth? Who do they matter to? If they mattered to them they would have them in their own homes. To wander through these mementos brings only pain for me. I can spend my time with what was, but the time spent there pushes me further away from who they are and what they are now. I would rather learn who they are now. I cannot cling too hard to the past, how cute they were, how loving, how simple life was then, lest I just crumble into a huddled mass of tears, nostalgia, and longing, over and over again. 

Jewelry. I don’t keep fine jewelry. It’s not something I treasure. I have nothing of value. I have gifts, yes, of earrings, mostly, but I typically lose one of each pair within months of receiving them. I am fine with purchasing cute jewelry now again from a local artist only to have them rejoin the raw materials in the earth after I lose one earring per pair.

Yoga mats. Artwork. Things from nature like pinecones and usnea, dried lavender, pussywillows, dry moss and heather. Lamps. Lace tablecloths, throw blankets, throw pillows. The entryway rug. Baskets. Mirrors. Metronome. Cork bowl. Wood Bowl. Valentine tchotchkes. Candles. No, they all can go.

The pantry full of herbs and spices, preserves, locally sourced root vegetables and grains, tinctures, small production olive oil, long kept garden amaro, carefully crafted tea blends, onions, and garlic, pastas and polentas, tinned fish. I might throw a few things into a bag, to have for emergencies. The rest though, they can go. I can have the thrill of hunting and gathering to occupy my mind as I navigate the loss of home.

I think that’s what I would miss the most. Home. Though the things within it may not individually have sentimental meaning or attachment, the whole of it, all hobbled together under the shelter of this hand built place form a lovingly curated home, and that just can’t be replaced. The only thing I would take with me are the memories, I think.