There are ghosts in this house.
     Now, don't be alarmed. I haven't suddenly gone round the bend, and don't need the guys in white coats just yet.
     I've been cleaning ALL THE THINGS! This house, for years, has been a sort of Fibber McGee closet. There's tons of storage space (including a full attic), and all of it, plus a single-car and a double-car garage, packed, crammed, stuffed full of stuff. I mean, they never threw anything away. A cumulative two hundred fifty years of stuff, if I include my stuff and I've had to . . . dear gods and little fishes.
     Some days, it seems like all I accomplish is moving things from one part of the house to another, so I can clean the part I moved stuff out of so I can move other stuff back into the newly cleaned space. There are times when I don't see an end, and the box of matches is looking rather attractive.
     To be strictly fair, a lot of stuff is gone. The auction guys came on Tuesday with a 22 foot trailer (empty) and loaded, and loaded, and loaded. Consequently, I have room enough in one bay of the bottom garage to shift the rest of the packed stuff from the house down for the infamous (I hate it) garage sale.
     We moved my giant (7 foot tall and 4 foot wide) bookcases (3 of them) into the "nook" and established a rather nice library area. All of my books in one place. Imagine that. That allows me to downsize two bookcases -- they're going with my friend Maggie tomorrow.
     Most of Dad's stuff is sorted. The last of Mother's stuff is still being sorted. More trips to Goodwill are immanent. But today, I started going through the little, piddly stuff that gets me worse than the big stuff. All of the residue of Mother's fiber arts tools (mostly crochet hooks -- not so dear to me since I don't crochet anymore) -- I looked at them and consigned them into the next Goodwill bag. Going through my stuff is next. That's tough, and I'm not going to want to do it, but I cannot keep ALL THE THINGS.
     Each piece, even the rocks, conjure memories of my past. Some are good, some not so good. The memories crowd into the now empty spaces, whispering "fill the space with something . . . anything." Each thing I touch seems to have some spark of life of its own. I question its spark . . . do I need to carry it over into a new life?
     More will be revealed later . . . 
   

Flotsam and Jetsam are more than just electric eels . . .

My house is a disaster. Boxes stacked to the ceiling in the dining room, awaiting disposition, lurk like quiet trolls. Furniture that was once filled to overflowing with books, knick-knacks, and "stuff" that didn't have some more appropriate home is bare (mostly), waiting for the guys from the auction to come and pick it up this coming Tuesday. For the last several days, I fill boxes, pick them up, move them to a spot, and then move them back to a different spot. As I go through stuff, my heart sinks because I know I'll have to go through it again, and maybe again.
     It seems cold and heartless to clear out Dad's stuff, as though somehow symbolically I'm consigning him to trash, Goodwill, auction and garage sale. I think if he were here, he'd shake his head in disgust, and say "just get rid of it." And in fact I may be letting emotion cloud good sense. But that doesn't make it feel less cold, less heartless.
     I did finally get down to the fiber room a couple of times this week. The first time was to unearth the boxes of pottery that "auction guy" was supposed to take with him; that worked out to be a bust, but at least moving the boxes allowed me to get a little better handle on how to put them back so that I have room to actually get to my blocking board table. The second time I got down there, I carded a lot of t'awesome batts. My favorite LYS owner bought a bunch of them (actually we traded for part of the tuition for the upcoming beginning weaving class I've been wanting to take and haven't had time to take). The rest are sitting happily in their storage drawer, awaiting their fate. At least they're quiet, and they don't eat anything or gestate (like the packed boxes seem to be doing).
     I've really been struggling with getting back into the zen of spinning. I think part of it is because I used to sit after dinner and spin while Dad was watching TV. He'd sit watching for a while, and then sit and watch me spin. A few days before he died, just after we brought him home from the hospital, he commented to my daughter-in-law "well, now we can get back to normal . . . Eva can get back to her spinning." And now . . . I'm just not feeling it. I did spin up a little fiber snack that AnnaMarie included with a CHF fiber order, and I was able to get into it in the moment, but don't feel the enthusiasm I did before Dad died.
     Part of the grieving process, I suppose. 
     I'd like to believe that once the stuff that has to go is cleared out, and I can redistribute furniture and arrange to suit me for as long as I'm here, I may feel more enthusiasm for spinning. I'd also like to believe that if I start knitting again, instead of just piling up yarn, I may have more enthusiasm for spinning.
     I've been stuck with my knitting, too. I've been working on a lace-like scarf for several months now, off and on; it's been the quick and easy project I worked on during Dad's doctor visits, and while he was in the hospital the last couple of times. It got put on hold during the rounds of knitting baby stuff, and it's one of two UFOs that really need finishing. I worked on it quite a bit last night (watching "Conspiracy Theory"), and it's pretty close to done. Maybe if I can muscle through, focus on the scarf rather than memories of where I've been while knitting it, I can get it finished, washed and blocked (once flotsam and jetsam swim off my blocking table and go bother some other part of the room).
     Or maybe I need a giant zap from Ursula, to break up the stuckness I'm experiencing. She can't be too far . . . Flotsam and Jetsam are everywhere in this house!

He said "you're self-actualizing" and my jaw dropped . . .

Actually, it did, a little. I don't know if it showed, really. And the thought, unbidden, was "self-actualization, my ass; I'm fighting for my life."
     Fortunately, my censor was working, and the words didn't walk straight out of my mouth. That has happened to me in the past, and it didn't end well. At least this time the censor was engaged and I succeeded in not humiliating myself. Always a good thing in a job interview.
     It had to have been one of the oddest interviews I've had in a long time. The guy is very clearly right-brained as hell, given to metaphor, and talking the job into existence while I'm sitting in his office. I was not prone to argue with the creation process, but did point out to him that it sounded to me as though he was taking a somewhat amorphous mass and trying to create a workable -- and working -- program out of it.
     I left almost as confused as I was when I arrived. I don't know whether or not the job will exist, and I don't know whether or not I'll be offered the job; to further complicate the issue, I don't know if I want the job he described, or the job that his boss described to me. And, worse yet, I'm not sure if they are the same job.
     The good news . . . I guess . . . is that the process is helping me further define my criteria for accepting a job. 1. It needs to meet my financial needs; 2. It needs to meet my work-related emotional needs; 3. It needs to offer enough variety that I don't get bored and have to go; 4. I need to have my own defined work space that it is mine, where I can work in peace and quiet; 5. I really need to not work for anyone that is crazier than I am. And of course, whatever it is that I'm doing -- or expected to do -- needs to match my personal mission, vision and values system. 
     That sounds awfully snotty, taken at face value, I think. And maybe it is. And maybe it's not. For example . . . 
     I love shoes. I love to buy shoes. I love to have lots of shoes, for variety. I recognized this a long time ago, and started buying shoes at a "big box" store. I was on a budget, they were cheap, and I had a damn lot of shoes. They all hurt my feet. They all hurt my back. But I had a damn lot of shoes and they were cheap. And they wore out quickly, but that was okay because I could buy more varietal shoes that hurt my back and my feet. A damn lot of them.
     A friend of mine talked me into trying Keen and Dansko shoes. They were not cheap. They did not hurt my feet. They did not hurt my back. I now have Keen sandals and sneakers and a pair of Keen winter boots. I have Dansko clogs. It's taken a while to buy them, because they're not cheap. I've had my Keen sandals for five years now. When they get dirty, I throw them in the wash and they come out looking brand new. I polish the Dansko clogs periodically, and they look brand new. They do not hurt. They look professional. I do not have a damn lot of them.
     So, I guess I can get a "big box" store job. But I'd really rather not.
     Whatever job simply needs to pay well enough that my fiber habit isn't compromised. :-D