A work in progress

Everyone has a story and often, parts of that story are told randomly, not only by the things accumulated through the years but how willingly you can identify and let go of those that do not belong in your life anymore.

I’ve tried to exercise restraint over the past few years, consciously re-shaping my shopping habits so that I do not have any impulsive (read: useless and excessive) buys. The said restraint, admittedly, was born out of my OC tendencies, more so as a way to deal with that gap between my goal (neatness; a place for everything and everything in its place) and reality (things crawling out of closets and drawers and creeping into other corners of the room as they are wont to do).

For almost two years while our house was being renovated, we were blessed to have lived in a temporary home, a beautiful space that, from the start, felt right for the heart. It was a haven, somewhere to retreat at day’s end, with trees that seasonally gave us baskets full of sweet mango and santol. A Talisay tree with an abundance of white flowers was the fragrant gift of the night. I loved that house, the wonderful space it afforded us (literally and figuratively) and we have many special memories there as a family, and with friends. My work table then looked out to the pool, it’s surrounding area embraced by beautiful greens. Paperwork, a mountain of it always, somehow seemed less formidable in that setting.

For that stretch of time that we were living there, we only brought out the essentials; more than half of our things — all that we accumulated as newlyweds, as then new parents, as busy bodies in whatever career life found us at different stages in our life — were in storage. Like long summers at the beach, when all of man’s needs and wants are simplified and stripped almost to the bare minimum, life was more beautiful. We really can live with so much less.

Once upon a time, if I liked something I would get it in many other colors. I’ve been quite good at editing myself in that department. We’ve now moved into our permanent space and the past month has been an exercise in paring down, simplifying, letting go even further. The latter has especially been quite the challenge. See, I’m very sentimental. I keep things because of the memory attached to it. In the kitchen, some of the things I see that I have kept through the years things are never just things — the flowered bowl my cousin Tricia gave me when I got newly engaged was the same bowl I used to serve the salad dish I learned at cooking school (back when I did not know my husband would always be a better cook than I can ever dream to be!).

I see it and I am brought back to the days when I was but a very young and new bride, all of 23 years old. The kiddie tableware Juliana used as a toddler, her My Melody lunch box set with the matching cutlery where I would place the heart and star shaped sandwiches, one look at them and I am reminded of the joys of being mom. The big Japanese stoneware I bought so I could cook the chicken rice with Chinese sausage (something I learned from cooking class) — oh, that was surprisingly easy and foolproof (just follow the recipe!) and was always such a hit. I should dig up that recipe, I know I have it on a shelf in the kitchen. It is a throwback to the days when I felt so empowered as a homemaker. Look, I can cook! I can actually cook something from scratch!

Nice stoneware I bought and stuffed carefully in my suitcase and that of Richard’s — I was pregnant then and we were in Japan. No shoes were ever in my size (everything was too small) and I was not in the mood to buy clothes because I was about to pop and was not quite sure how my body would look like post baby. So I bought plates and bowls and was happy as can be. My good husband never frowned on it, he was indulgent and allowed me to be as happy as can be.

Let’s move to the bedroom. In my closet still, despite a conscious effort to edit, were clothes I had not worn in years but could just not let go, again because of the story behind it. To move closer to my goal of keeping only what I could honestly say I will still use I knew I had to be ruthless. I decidedly took out anything I had not worn in the past two years, and disallowed any potential debates with myself that would make me rethink my decision. The blue jacket that I wore the night the world sat oh so heavily on my shoulders? It went in the box. Why hang on to something that was a reminder of something quite sad anyway? The white silk top that I wore that marked the beginning of a political alliance 4 years ago? The alliance is still there, stronger than ever, but I have not worn it since that day. I placed it in the box. The striped button down shirt that hugged me perfectly was not so perfect, come to think of it — each time I wore something was bound not to go my way. I am not superstitious but I do not want to take any chances. I did not put it in the box, by the way, I threw it away. What else did I find. Dresses with tags on still, pants and skirts I wore just once, bags and accessories I even forgot I had.

Ben Chan, who is endlessly generous and is one of those who is forever pruning the stuff he owns, simplified it for me one day while we were talking over dinner. Often, he shares, a part of us is nanghihinayang. Sayang, I never even used this. Sayang, I paid so much for this. Sayang, I wore this one really fun night. Sayang, this really looks nice on me. But is it not more sayang because you are not using it? How can it be sayang if, once we give it away, someone will be able to make use of it the way we will never be able to? Truly, what is the use of keeping it, hoarding it, keeping it in closets and drawers like canned goods in a cupboard that one day will expire.

I have made very good friends with that thought, I keep it playing in my mind, and it has been very liberating to say the least. And so each day over the past month since we moved, boxes upon boxes of stuff would go out the door. Extra everything — beds, sofas, deals and cabinets, clothes, curtains, linens — they have found happy new homes.

Our space now still looks relatively bare. Perhaps we are just taking our time, familiarizing ourselves with the cuts and corners, settling into how life flows for us there. I know I want a kamias tree somewhere, so that our cook Liza can make sinigang with it the way she used to when we were still in our first home. There are guyabano, langka, chico, coconut, and mango trees that I pray will also bear sweet fruit. One of our girls, Helen, makes wonderful bucayo from shredded coconut. I grew up eating that in the province but it seems to be quite a novelty here in Manila.

There are some things I know I will hang on to but every day poses a challenge to the sentimental hoarder in me. And so the story, as with the simplifying of life by editing and letting go of what could potentially be just clutter (no matter how beautiful it sometimes camouflages itself to be) continues. Sometimes, I succeed, other times I fail. I am a work in progress.