E S S A Y   My current project of decluttering my life is already producing the effects I wished for. With each thing I discard I feel freer and lighter. This isn’t confined only to the material possessions I’ve kept through the years, it also includes outdated, ill-fitting, or otherwise unnecessary ideas and goals, but it begins with the material world and filters on through the mental, emotional, and spiritual. Funny how that works. I’ve always maintained that our outer environment reveals the condition of our inner state and, this cottage, with its doilies, figurines, lace, and old family chotchkies revealed my need for a home life I enjoyed growing up. It’s been nurturing and safe, but I’m ready to step out from that womb. I’m not saying I don’t like the cottage style, I’m just tired of it. It’s holding me back and it no longer resonates with who I’m evolving into, and who Nettl and I are becoming as a couple. Oddly, when I was younger I adored the grandma look, but now that I’m of the grandma age, I want a more active look. “I don’t want the ‘Arsenic And Old Lace’ look anymore.”

The most arduous part of this project is emotional, though. Thoughts of Oh, look. Mom’s doilies! and I remember when we bought this! flood my mind, and I’m forced to decide which box something is destined for: “Keep on Display,” “Store in Attic,” “Donate to Habitat,” or “Trash.” You have to be mentally and emotionally ready for this kind of decluttering; it isn’t something I’d advise you force yourself to do. You’ll know when (or even if) you’re ready when the urge to feel unencumbered  outweighs your sentimentality, and when your peace of mind is crowded and pinched by the things you’ve been holding onto. Whether it’s an idea, a habit, a relationship, an attitude, or a table, you’ll know when it’s time to let it go. If it happens at all. I mean, it’s not mandatory for everyone in order to maintain their happiness. For me, it is. I’m done with the pain, the drama, the fear, the xenophobia, and the chaos of modern life and I’m creating a private world where curiosity, the arts, intellectual pursuits, wanderlust, and the celebration of our diverse and magical world can be celebrated. As above so below, as without so within.

Mostly, my work right now consists of cleaning out the debris and clutter I’ve accumulated in myself through the years. The physical part of this project ends at the close of the day, but the mental, emotional, and spiritual parts continue.

Hm. I wonder how my inner self will relax once my outer self is planted in the recliner we’re buying…

SK Waller is an author and composer. Books One and Two (With A Dream and With A Bullet) of her rock and roll series, Beyond The Bridge,  takes places in late 70s London. Read more at SK Waller Blog and SKWaller.com.

E  S  S  A  Y   Around ten years ago I wrote an essay for this blog about not being much of a hugger. I theorized then that hugging is a learned response and no one in my family seemed to be enthusiastic about hugging. Who knows what went on behind parents’ closed doors but that’s another day on someone’s couch.

Only recently has hugging become important to me and what a revelation that was. Chalk it up to age or life changes or whatever, the point is that I now have come to understand the value of a hug. Now I know that it’s a vital connection that tells someone that they are important to you, and if the hug is reciprocally enthusiastic, you know that you are important to them. And that’s what hugging has always been about – I just didn’t know it.

I still have a problem hugging a tall person. Getting up close and personal with a sternum is not my idea of a good time or a good hug. But it’s a minor complaint in the scheme of things, especially when hugs are loaded with health benefits. Yes, when you feel close and connected to people you care about, studies have shown that this enhanced social support can mean you’re less likely to catch a cold.

Then there’s the fact that hugging can release oxytocin (also known as the bonding hormone) and that in turn reduces stress. Receptors under your skin can increase vagal activity that helps to put you in a relaxed state. The calming effect of a hug has been shown to reduce anxiety and depression.

I’m not confident that our current state of polarization could be ameliorated by increasing hugging, but it might not be a bad place to start. It’s hard to yell insults at someone when you’re in a close embrace.

So I’ve come late to the party but that beats not being invited, or worse, not knowing there was a party. I no longer shrink from the hug. Quite the opposite. I’ve embraced the embrace. Don’t you think I even sound calmer?

Jay Harrison is a graphic designer and writer whose work can be seen at DesignConcept. He’s written a mystery novel, which therefore makes him a pre-published author.

E  S  S  A  Y  It’s said that the skill in attending a party is knowing when to leave. I’ve never been very good at that. I always arrive as close to time as I dare and I’m usually the last to leave. I just don’t want the fun to be over, you see. I don’t see any merit in leaving when there’s still a good time to be had, and who knows what can happen after the crowd disperses? Many, many times, I’ve had the best time after a party’s over and just a few people linger to sit back to talk while finishing the food and drink. That’s when it gets intimate and insightful. When I was a kid my mother used to say about me, “Oh, she’s just afraid she’s going to miss something,” and it’s still true of me today. I just don’t understand parties where everything closes down before midnight.

On a deeper level I’ve always hung around life’s parties far too long, too, even when things started to turn ugly and, every time, I overstayed to my own detriment. Eventually, though, I’d see the convoluted mess around me and I’d up and leave without notice, without warning, without regret. Not all “parties” that begin with promising fanfare end prettily. Oftentimes, life’s floor is strewn with the bodies of those who couldn’t hold up. I’ve never enjoyed that kind of thing; for me it’s about developing relationships, not numbing out or looking the other way.

I’m finding as I get older that my ability to hold up has lessened a great deal. Sure, I still don’t want the fun to be over, but some things haven’t been fun for a very long time. All I see is bodies, trampled confetti, and a huge mess that no one has the strength or the will to clean up. The fun has turned into pain and anger so I’m out the door. I refuse to be a casualty of those who, through their rage, lash out at each other as well as everyone else in the room. I won’t stick around for the fistfight; when the accusations, backstabbing, shaming, hexing, and dragging everyone at the party through the mud begins, I leave.

This probably is a character flaw on my part; I’m willing to accept that I can no longer hold up. But I’ve finally learned the art of leaving at the right time, or at least I hope I have. When the music ends, the overhead lights come on, and people are passing out, it’s time to assess the situation. The party isn’t pretty anymore, and it never will be ever again. It’s time to go.

SK Waller is an author and composer. Books One and Two (With A Dream and With A Bullet) of her rock and roll series, Beyond The Bridge,  takes places in late 70s London. Read more at SK Waller Blog and SKWaller.com.

E  S  S  A  Y   I read recently about the various quirks we humans have, and was reassured to find that I’m not alone in some of my behavior. And I’m not sure if the failure to master parallel parking falls under the heading of an endearing quirk (probably not) or, more likely, complete ineptitude on my part. Whichever area you assign it, it’s pretty much been the bane of my vehicular existence for the last forty plus years.

I didn’t get my license until I was 20 and a junior in college.  I wasn’t that interested in driving, had friends to squire me about, and it simply didn’t hold the allure for me that it did for lots of other kids my age. My Dad, an incredibly kind and patient man, understandably seemed a little more tense with me by the time I followed my three brothers to a license. While I knew all the rules of the road and was conscientious about following the speed limit and using the signal indicator, parallel parking was a bugaboo I simply couldn’t conquer. We practiced it ad nauseum, but I think his unflagging patience was tried to its limit with me. Finally, the day of the road test came and I was of course pretty nervous about the parking portion of the test, which came last. I passed the driving portion with flying colors, and then carefully pulled into the designated parking spot between two orange cones. If memory serves, this maneuver took two or three tries. I knew I was in trouble when the young officer opened the passenger door, leaned his head out and asked, “What do you want me to do, lady, take a boat to the curb?!” He passed me anyway, either out of pity, not wanting to have to repeat the experience, or a combination of the two.

That was then, this is now. I don’t know if it was turning 65 recently or simply chagrin with myself for being so incompetent for so long in this one area, but I decided to embrace parallel parking. Okay, embrace is too strong. I now deliberately choose spots on the street that require me to use the parallel parking skills that my contemporaries mastered years ago. No pulling in head first for me, no sir! I’m not saying it’s always pretty; it isn’t. It takes two or three tries sometimes, and frequently involves the tires scraping the curb as I settle in. But I’m doing it, and I’m 65! Now if I could only learn how to use chopsticks….

Barbara Tulli is a retired elementary school librarian in Virginia. Now she devotes more time to writing, reading, traveling and sleeping past 5:15 AM. Read more at her blog Just Beyond the Tracks.