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November 7
St. Martin, St. Martin
After following a few rural roads I knew so well from the years I rode Bus #23 as a schoolkid, I arrived in St. Martin full of memories of old classmates. With a smile on my face thinking of Dad’s adage “The Devil can’t corner you in a round church,” I walked into the uniquely-shaped building and slipped in a pew next to former neighbors from Richmond. We exchanged a few discreet winks and waves as we finished the last decade of the rosary but did not exchange a word until after Mass.
Today’s gospel from Luke 15:1-10 “This man welcomes sinners and eats with them” centered on Jesus’ scandalous behavior: hanging around with sinners and shunning normal conventions by choosing poverty instead of collecting material goods. Father Edward gave a simple yet meaningful homily about world possessions, “Don’t let your possessions possess you.”
Downsizing
Bring it on, Marie Kondo! I could show her a thing or two about joy and inanimate objects. My siblings and I had the daunting task of clearing out my parents’ belongings from the farm they had lived on since 1963–over fifty years. As they had grown up during The Great Depression, they were frugal and kept anything that might be useful. And even some things that were not useful. Friends who helped their parents downsize would nod at common kitchen accumulations: bread bags, twist ties, plastic containers with their lids, plastic containers with no lids, lids with no containers, etc. Dad was always careful to have spare parts on hand. If he bought a used tractor, he’d find another to purchase of the same make and model for spare parts. From room to room we sorted through the accumulations dating back to the Kennedy Administration including teaching supplies, tax files from the 70’s forward, multiple pairs of polyester plaid pants, several lifetime supplies of Carmex, gallons of car wash concentrate, twenty giant bags of cat food, enough calcium supplements to build an entire skeleton, the list goes on and on.
In many long days over the course of a few months, we eventually had the house, barns, sheds, and junk yards cleared. We definitely did not have much time to hold each object and determine if it brought us joy, but we shared a lot of laughs.
Motivated by both not wanting my kids to have to purge my stuff and a cancer recurrence forcing me to consider a shorter timeline, I was sufficiently inspired to downsize my own belongings. I had the boys go through their tote of school work I had saved since kindergarten. They laughed while they reminisced and eliminated anything they were not fond of. Lots of art construction paper was tossed. It was interesting to see how easy it was for them to pare down. So I, in the middle of parents who saved and kids who did not, judiciously sorted through my belongings and household items. Bookcases full of books I had read were donated to the library for someone else to enjoy. Multiple black cardigans in different lengths and weights were culled down to two favorites. When I realized I had more shoes than Scott, Mack and Ben combined, I whittled it down to what Dad’s old wardrobe could hold and named it my “shwordrobe.” Jewelry was passed to friends who were still working and nieces who might appreciate some bling. After every season passed, I would donate anything that had gone unworn and never missed a shred of it. Also, I was keen on not buying more. Socks, underwear, slippers and pajamas for myself were my only additions. All of the downsizing helped me upsize my appreciation for what I had. Ultimately my joy was in needing less. I definitely had been more about possessing possessions in the past. It was also amusingly frustrating that I now had nearly unlimited time to shop when I no longer needed to. And the only thing I really wanted and needed was not for sale: time.
Now that everyday seemed like a Saturday I was determined to use my time well, to appreciate it like I valued weekends during the school year. I added new hobbies and activities: biking on Tuesday nights, gardening with JoAnn, art journaling, mahjong on Friday mornings, learning to play the accordion–shout out to Carol for lending me her Grandpa’s, and finally being able to hula hoop. During the long Minnesota winters, I worried it might be easy to slide into a too comfortable comfort zone, so I made rules like no pajama days and for every episode of Netflix/Amazon Prime watched while lounging, I caught the next while on the treadmill or stationary bike. I found videos for yoga, Tai Chi, tap dancing and Irish dances. I took a lot of walks and listened to podcasts or homilies from Father Mike Schmitz, the priest Ben knew from Mass at UMD’s Newman Center, or upbeat music I curated in Spotify on the Lake Koronis Recreational Trail less than a block from our home. My usual destination was 18 minutes away where I’d play fetch with my friend Janet’s black labs, Norm and Pete, and then walk back. Norm and Pete always seemed happy to see me even though my throwing ability was atrocious. In the Mr. Peanut Fitness test from elementary physical education class, I’d get mostly blue stars except for the softball throw with a lowly bronze star. Once on Koronis Hill golf course’s eighth green, I attempted to toss a golf ball to Ben and it ended up down the hill behind me. Abysmal. Our dog Jet loved to play fetch– with anyone but me; if I threw a stick, she’d bring it back to anyone else or she’d shun me by returning it once then scampering away before I threw it again. My inability to throw was documented by a coworker who made a video for his physics class showing me trying to toss an egg at a sheet and missing high and then low. Honestly, I did not spend a moment trying to improve my throwing, but I did my level best not to throw away any of my time.
I gave away many physical things but gained so much spiritually. Psalm 139:14 really spoke to me: “I will praise You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made; Marvelous are Your Works, And that my souls know very well.” My situation made me look for meaning and answers and I felt so rewarded and uplifted when I found them.