Your blanket story reminded me of my sister. She insisted on carrying a blanket around for years (though not as many years as you kept yours, for sure!). When it became ragged and began to fall apart, my mother made her a new one, layering the old one inside it. My mom fashioned a little pocket at one end where my sister could put her hand in and feel her old original blanket.
Good luck in your editing--of your book and your life!
I have no idea what happened to that blanket. Both my mom and sister have moved house many times. I will have to ask them. It would be interesting to know.
One Spring afternoon in 1952 my Jewish parents--my father a refugee from Nazi German--took my sister, 5, and me, 8, to a Presbyterian church on Fifth Avenue in NYC, where we were baptized. It was the first and only time we were ever in that church. Later, when I asked my mom what that was all about, she said, "In case anything like what happened in Germany were to happen here, he wanted you and your sister to have papers." Although I identify openly as Jewish, I will never part with that baptismal certificate, an act of love.
I have to admit that embarrassment lurked beneath as I wrote about the blanket. By the end, it had faded away. Now I am looking at other subjects that make me want to write and blush at the same time.
I got my unthrowable comfort Jacobs sheep blanket from my wife Susan for my fiftieth birthday and to take on a beach hut holiday on the east coast of England. I use it every day. You are a great ‘life’ writer. Selfishly, it is something I would like more of.🐰
I bet Susan bought it for you so it could hug you while she was busy doing other things. What a lovely gift and how soft and warm and comforting it must be.
A bit like yours it has a few holes. Susan uses it too on the Danish settee/day bed we bought secondhand back in 2006 when she was being treated for breast cancer (which she had again in 2017). But you are right, it does hug me🐰
When I toss out or gift out, my lungs expand further and I breathe better. But when I keep "treasures" that have graced my life, my heart beats better and allows for comfort.
The trick is to know which objects are treasures, right? Although, now that I think about it some more, the heart knows the treasures instantly which is why it beats better. Thx for this and for your earlier story about La Unica!
It's uncanny to me that your topics quite often dovetail with a sense that you've written exactly what I needed to hear at exactly the right moment. I'm faced with *too much stuff* like so many of us and yet, it's so hard, still, to let go. I try, and I'm making some improvement along this front, but for me, it remains a challenge. I guess my equivalent to your blanket is Mr. Bear, a polar bear who was bigger than I was when visitors to my parents' cottages gave him to me. I remember lugging him home, as I struggled up the hill from Sandra (our duplex cottage nearest the lake) to my house. I think I was almost three. He lost the felt around his eyes (I restored it, and his googly eyes, too), and his little red felt tongue isn't quite as crisp and perky as it once was, but if I nestle my nose into the crook between his neck and his shoulder, he still has the loveliest, indescribable scent.
Mr. Bear is a treasure. Whatever you toss, I hope he remains. My sister had a teddy bear that was repaired so many times -- new eyes, plaid patches. In a gesture of generosity unmatched by any I've ever extended to her, she gave the bear to my son when he was a baby. At eight years old, he drew it as part of a class assignment. That drawing is on my office wall and I would never part with it. I'll send you a photo of it! But then you must send a photo of Mr. Bear.
This was so beautiful, Betsy. As luck would have it, my wife has a blanket very similar to the one you describe — I think I understand it a little more now ❤️
Thank you for the kind words, Terrell! Knowing about your wife's blanket makes me feel that that I am not alone. I'm glad you give the blanket space in your life with her.
The space that’s left after clearing way! It’s magic. It lets you breathe. Objects have meaning, but they can also become a cage and a burden. I learned from archives work that removing unnecessary items is as important as preserving others. The purpose of a collection will be completely obscured by materials accumulated thoughtlessly over time, while removing superfluous things allows the value and meaning of what’s left to shine through. I’ve grown more confident in paring things down over time, and I take more joy from (what superficially appears to be) less. I wonder if this is a skill that deepens with age, as with older folks who eat fewer and smaller meals over time, requiring less to sustain them. Thank you—I love your writing.
And I love your writing, and way of thinking. That idea -- paring as a skill that "deepens with age, as with older folks who eat fewer and smaller meals over time, requiring less to sustain them" will stay with me. I may come back to you on that to talk about it more in a future post.
The process of shedding objects takes on a different light when I consider it as curation of a collection. I have particularly struggled with the process when going through family photographs and letters. My heart wants it all.
I’m the keeper of many objects for my extended family, and I relate to valuing collective memories! I also deeply believe that Things can become traps. We can let go of objects when we realize our needs have changed. Sometimes cleaning out is really about our long-term vision.
Gettig rid of what I love... Recently, we moved to another state, and physically, we had to get rid of many things, including books. And that was torture. Libraries accept only chosen books at exact times. You are right. We need a minimum (not about books) of things in our lives, but we get bogged down in unnecessary materialism, losing our freedom. Though you are right again. We all have one dear old thing; we keep it our whole lives because that old dear thing connects our lives together, giving it a sense of dear memory. Thank you for your essay.
Love this. I think I'm a writer because I see secret lives in everything. Decluttering is particularly impossible, but only in real life, not on the page. Your blue blanket is a lovely story, especially seeing its real colour now. It is still steadfastly blue to you, because it is blue through all the rest of time, when it saw so much with you.
A lovely essay. Like Morgana, I have a bear...mine is a mini Stieff that was handed down to me by my cousin, who got it from a German relative who brought it over from the old country. Teddy Bear small, not taller than a Barbie—I never owned any Barbies but my young neighbors did, and Teddy played with them happily. He stowed away in my backpack as we kids followed our mom around Europe and California. He went off to seek his fortune in LA and NYC with me in the 1980s and then sailed off with Russel and I on each of our voyages. Teddy is temporarily snuggled into a box and tucked away but will sail once again this summer.
This connects so beautifully to the idea that letting go is also a form of choosing. There’s courage in trusting that what remains is enough, even when what’s leaving once mattered. I love how you honor both the attachment and the release without turning either into something small. It makes the process feel alive and deeply personal.
I think the process is very personal. I am often struck by how time can alter my perception of what I need to hold onto and what I'm ready to release. Your comments are very perceptive and kind. I feel heard!!!!
What a beautiful story of your blue blanket, Betsy. The metaphor of editing our work and editing our story (our life) is perfect, too. Not just what goes, but what is kept. Thank you for another compelling post. (And yes, "The Book of Form and Emptiness." Same!)
I just love this, Sandra. "You can spent the balance of our lives on my bed. It's time to rest." Beautiful, every word. Thank you for sharing it here with all of us.
"They all connect with a story I was trying to tell, not on the page but about myself. They don’t work anymore. I hope they find a new purpose elsewhere."
Just this morning, as we've moved into a new house, I went at the closet more brutally than I've done before. There were more than a handful of clothing items I kept from a very significant time in my life twenty years ago. Each had specific memories attached. I realized I've kept them, in part, because they tell a story about me that I don't want to forget; they are a part of a version of me that I don't want to lose. Today, I was able to get rid of more than half of them. Maybe some high school or college girl in my town will find her own enjoyment in some really cool vintage dresses that--seriously--will never fit me again.
More than that, I feel confident that 28-year-old me is part of the foundations of myself. She isn't going anywhere.
Coming to that realization that you don't want to lose the version of yourself captured in those dresses must be powerful. Just as giving them away must be if it means that you now know that the 28-year-old Rebecca is solid within you.
I smiled when I read this. I still have a black Betsy Johnson shirred knit dress -- off the shoulder, way shorter than knee length, hugged my thirty-something body at the peak of my sexual self-confidence. I still don't know if the dress gave me some of that confidence or was just an expression of it. You've gotten me thinking that maybe this dress, too, deserves to find a new purpose.
Since we've moved around as a military family, I probably find it easier than most to get rid of things. But our last move 3.5 years, I had to get rid of a lot of books. Some I'd read, some I hadn't gotten to yet. But because of reduced space, I had to make hard decisions on which to keep and which to give away. Now I have a Little Free Library, I wish I still had them to put in there!
Your blanket story reminded me of my sister. She insisted on carrying a blanket around for years (though not as many years as you kept yours, for sure!). When it became ragged and began to fall apart, my mother made her a new one, layering the old one inside it. My mom fashioned a little pocket at one end where my sister could put her hand in and feel her old original blanket.
Good luck in your editing--of your book and your life!
Your mom sounds amazing. That pocket -- what an idea. Do you or your sister know what happened to her blanket? Does she have it still?
Thank you for the good wishes! I'll keep you posted!
I have no idea what happened to that blanket. Both my mom and sister have moved house many times. I will have to ask them. It would be interesting to know.
One Spring afternoon in 1952 my Jewish parents--my father a refugee from Nazi German--took my sister, 5, and me, 8, to a Presbyterian church on Fifth Avenue in NYC, where we were baptized. It was the first and only time we were ever in that church. Later, when I asked my mom what that was all about, she said, "In case anything like what happened in Germany were to happen here, he wanted you and your sister to have papers." Although I identify openly as Jewish, I will never part with that baptismal certificate, an act of love.
I understand why you can never let it go. When an object comes as an act of love, it conveys that love long after the person is gone.
A mysterious attachment shared without embarrassment. My blanket, myself. Just lovely.
I have to admit that embarrassment lurked beneath as I wrote about the blanket. By the end, it had faded away. Now I am looking at other subjects that make me want to write and blush at the same time.
I got my unthrowable comfort Jacobs sheep blanket from my wife Susan for my fiftieth birthday and to take on a beach hut holiday on the east coast of England. I use it every day. You are a great ‘life’ writer. Selfishly, it is something I would like more of.🐰
I bet Susan bought it for you so it could hug you while she was busy doing other things. What a lovely gift and how soft and warm and comforting it must be.
A bit like yours it has a few holes. Susan uses it too on the Danish settee/day bed we bought secondhand back in 2006 when she was being treated for breast cancer (which she had again in 2017). But you are right, it does hug me🐰
When I toss out or gift out, my lungs expand further and I breathe better. But when I keep "treasures" that have graced my life, my heart beats better and allows for comfort.
The trick is to know which objects are treasures, right? Although, now that I think about it some more, the heart knows the treasures instantly which is why it beats better. Thx for this and for your earlier story about La Unica!
It's uncanny to me that your topics quite often dovetail with a sense that you've written exactly what I needed to hear at exactly the right moment. I'm faced with *too much stuff* like so many of us and yet, it's so hard, still, to let go. I try, and I'm making some improvement along this front, but for me, it remains a challenge. I guess my equivalent to your blanket is Mr. Bear, a polar bear who was bigger than I was when visitors to my parents' cottages gave him to me. I remember lugging him home, as I struggled up the hill from Sandra (our duplex cottage nearest the lake) to my house. I think I was almost three. He lost the felt around his eyes (I restored it, and his googly eyes, too), and his little red felt tongue isn't quite as crisp and perky as it once was, but if I nestle my nose into the crook between his neck and his shoulder, he still has the loveliest, indescribable scent.
Mr. Bear is a treasure. Whatever you toss, I hope he remains. My sister had a teddy bear that was repaired so many times -- new eyes, plaid patches. In a gesture of generosity unmatched by any I've ever extended to her, she gave the bear to my son when he was a baby. At eight years old, he drew it as part of a class assignment. That drawing is on my office wall and I would never part with it. I'll send you a photo of it! But then you must send a photo of Mr. Bear.
This was so beautiful, Betsy. As luck would have it, my wife has a blanket very similar to the one you describe — I think I understand it a little more now ❤️
Thank you for the kind words, Terrell! Knowing about your wife's blanket makes me feel that that I am not alone. I'm glad you give the blanket space in your life with her.
The space that’s left after clearing way! It’s magic. It lets you breathe. Objects have meaning, but they can also become a cage and a burden. I learned from archives work that removing unnecessary items is as important as preserving others. The purpose of a collection will be completely obscured by materials accumulated thoughtlessly over time, while removing superfluous things allows the value and meaning of what’s left to shine through. I’ve grown more confident in paring things down over time, and I take more joy from (what superficially appears to be) less. I wonder if this is a skill that deepens with age, as with older folks who eat fewer and smaller meals over time, requiring less to sustain them. Thank you—I love your writing.
And I love your writing, and way of thinking. That idea -- paring as a skill that "deepens with age, as with older folks who eat fewer and smaller meals over time, requiring less to sustain them" will stay with me. I may come back to you on that to talk about it more in a future post.
The process of shedding objects takes on a different light when I consider it as curation of a collection. I have particularly struggled with the process when going through family photographs and letters. My heart wants it all.
I’m the keeper of many objects for my extended family, and I relate to valuing collective memories! I also deeply believe that Things can become traps. We can let go of objects when we realize our needs have changed. Sometimes cleaning out is really about our long-term vision.
Gettig rid of what I love... Recently, we moved to another state, and physically, we had to get rid of many things, including books. And that was torture. Libraries accept only chosen books at exact times. You are right. We need a minimum (not about books) of things in our lives, but we get bogged down in unnecessary materialism, losing our freedom. Though you are right again. We all have one dear old thing; we keep it our whole lives because that old dear thing connects our lives together, giving it a sense of dear memory. Thank you for your essay.
Thank you.
Love this. I think I'm a writer because I see secret lives in everything. Decluttering is particularly impossible, but only in real life, not on the page. Your blue blanket is a lovely story, especially seeing its real colour now. It is still steadfastly blue to you, because it is blue through all the rest of time, when it saw so much with you.
A lovely essay. Like Morgana, I have a bear...mine is a mini Stieff that was handed down to me by my cousin, who got it from a German relative who brought it over from the old country. Teddy Bear small, not taller than a Barbie—I never owned any Barbies but my young neighbors did, and Teddy played with them happily. He stowed away in my backpack as we kids followed our mom around Europe and California. He went off to seek his fortune in LA and NYC with me in the 1980s and then sailed off with Russel and I on each of our voyages. Teddy is temporarily snuggled into a box and tucked away but will sail once again this summer.
This connects so beautifully to the idea that letting go is also a form of choosing. There’s courage in trusting that what remains is enough, even when what’s leaving once mattered. I love how you honor both the attachment and the release without turning either into something small. It makes the process feel alive and deeply personal.
I think the process is very personal. I am often struck by how time can alter my perception of what I need to hold onto and what I'm ready to release. Your comments are very perceptive and kind. I feel heard!!!!
What a beautiful story of your blue blanket, Betsy. The metaphor of editing our work and editing our story (our life) is perfect, too. Not just what goes, but what is kept. Thank you for another compelling post. (And yes, "The Book of Form and Emptiness." Same!)
Thanks, Judy - and that book! I really love Ruth Ozeki and admire her tremendously.
Here's a poem I wrote several years ago about my first stuffed animal. He and I are still here, 80 years after I got him. Peanut Rabbit
You came to be with me when
I was two years old. Peter Rabbit
became Peanut Rabbit on the
first Easter I could talk. You
must have been beautiful in your
original colors of baby blue and
pink. You're mostly gray now,
like me. I have glasses, you have
button eyes, a replacement for
your originals. Your ears are still
mostly pink, and mine still mostly
hear, though with help. You
became stiff and scratchy after
Mom washed you on the scrub
board and hung you out to dry,
so I put you away. But, like me,
you've softened over the years.
I don't know how either of us
survived the frequent moves from
state to state, house to house, but
we're still here. You can spend the
balance of our lives on my bed. It's
time to rest.
I just love this, Sandra. "You can spent the balance of our lives on my bed. It's time to rest." Beautiful, every word. Thank you for sharing it here with all of us.
Thank you so much, Betsy.
"They all connect with a story I was trying to tell, not on the page but about myself. They don’t work anymore. I hope they find a new purpose elsewhere."
Just this morning, as we've moved into a new house, I went at the closet more brutally than I've done before. There were more than a handful of clothing items I kept from a very significant time in my life twenty years ago. Each had specific memories attached. I realized I've kept them, in part, because they tell a story about me that I don't want to forget; they are a part of a version of me that I don't want to lose. Today, I was able to get rid of more than half of them. Maybe some high school or college girl in my town will find her own enjoyment in some really cool vintage dresses that--seriously--will never fit me again.
More than that, I feel confident that 28-year-old me is part of the foundations of myself. She isn't going anywhere.
Coming to that realization that you don't want to lose the version of yourself captured in those dresses must be powerful. Just as giving them away must be if it means that you now know that the 28-year-old Rebecca is solid within you.
I smiled when I read this. I still have a black Betsy Johnson shirred knit dress -- off the shoulder, way shorter than knee length, hugged my thirty-something body at the peak of my sexual self-confidence. I still don't know if the dress gave me some of that confidence or was just an expression of it. You've gotten me thinking that maybe this dress, too, deserves to find a new purpose.
Since we've moved around as a military family, I probably find it easier than most to get rid of things. But our last move 3.5 years, I had to get rid of a lot of books. Some I'd read, some I hadn't gotten to yet. But because of reduced space, I had to make hard decisions on which to keep and which to give away. Now I have a Little Free Library, I wish I still had them to put in there!