Hope my stuff doesn't find me

Gosh, I have a lot of stuff. That was one of my first impressions returning home. So much stuff. I've gotten used to living on so little in Loreto that the sight of my household overwhelmed me. With fresh eyes I took in all those things that make up my house: the fine furnishings, the artwork, the portraits and photos and personal momentos, the abundant electronics and appliances, the potted plants, the books and magazines, kitchen drawers loaded with every available utensil and gadget, junk drawers full of pens and paperclips and batteries and twist-ties and pliers and unidentified keys, the hall closet stuffed with assorted coats and jackets, winter boots and dozens of orphaned gloves spilling out of a plastic laundry basket. It made me tired to look. Sensory overload.

This wealth of stuff I'd worked for years to acquire. I loved creating a nice, comfortable house. Every little thing I hunted for and brought home had the purpose of improving my domestic environment. It was a work in progress, a life-long hobby. I loved my house. So it was surprising, my reaction, to seeing it again after five months. It felt burdensome and heavy and sent out a message to me that said, "I'm yours, take care of me." I've grown so lazy in Loreto that bringing in the mail (of which we have none, in Loreto) would be taxing to me. Here on my kitchen counter was five months of magazines, and bills and credit card offers, letters and Christmas cards crying out to be attended to.

That first day home required some re-adjustment for sure. But here, three days later, I am back in the saddle. Back to cleaning and arranging and care-taking my stuff. I'm going to be a good girl and give everything it's dose of attention and then I'm gonna sneak back down to the baja again where my things can't find me.