We always move the first week of August—it’s tradition.  So I wasn’t really surprised when Jay, upon reflecting that the summer was almost gone and we weren’t making any forward progress, declared that it was time to move.  Sunday, August 2nd (our twelfth anniversary, incidentally) marked the last time we packed up our things after visiting the boat. Monday we made it home. Although there are logistical challenges to making this kind of move, the real test is a mental one. Yesterday the house on dirt was called “home,” and today the floating house is called “home.”  We drove back and forth all week, loading and unloading the boat, and the house, and made frequent slips, saying, “I’m going home to get such-and-such, I mean, I’m going to the house…” Or, the kids, asking, “Are we going home yet?” and I unsure how to answer. 

All that confusion has now come to an end. After a year of flying between two nests, the mama bird has come home to roost. I write from my now-tidied and organized, cozy, little salon. The galley is crammed with kitchen gadgets I have learned to live without, and now appreciate more than ever, and the bookshelves are loaded with my most prized possessions, the few that are left after a savage culling. I have given away 15 boxes of books, so far, and will have to store the leather-bound volumes an old friend left to me when she no longer needed them. I brought only what I considered “necessities” but Jay’s condemning look as he loaded my homeschool boxes was almost more than I could bear. What have I weighed us down with that I really could do without?  I don’t know the answer to that question, because I’ve never done this before.

What is really mortifying is how much stuff we have left over. Anyone who knows me knows I seek to live a “simple” life—we don’t even know the Joneses, let alone try to keep up with them. We moved back to Florida to downsize, donating everything from our Atlanta basement, and have continued to make regular trips to drop things off at the Hospice Thrift Shop and Salvation Army. So it is truly shocking to see what is left after I have been hard at work for two months giving things away. Now that we are out of the house, I have been ruthless, but still, every time I open a closet or kitchen drawer, more stuff grins out at me. Where did it come from? Did we really think we needed it?  I feel that I am a great hypocrite (which I surely am): I who profess to be un-materialistic, have amassed a quantity of material things.  Many of these things are gifts which we graciously received, or duplicate sets of things from living in two places at once, but many were purchased frivolously, lumped into the “grocery” budget because Costco sells oh-so-much-more than food.  You know how I love a good sermon, so here’s one for me, “But if we have food and clothing, we will be content with that.” 1 Timothy 6:8.  Only in trying to get rid of it have I seen how much more we possess than we need.

My one great joy in this cleansing process has been that so many have come into our lives needing exactly the things I am giving away.  That has made it easy to part with things which I would otherwise begrudgingly donate. We have all made small sacrifices to pursue this dream—giving away toys and books is hard for our children, too. The only “things” we haven’t yet parted with: Sugar and Spice, the family cats. I don’t think they want to spend their golden years surrounded by water, but we won’t be satisfied with less than a happy home to which to send them. Maybe someone out there is lonely for a pair of spinster cat sisters—I just hope we find that person soon!

A lot of bird activity lately. We noticed two things when we got down to the boat this weekend. Lots of berry-colored “residue” all over the deck and blackbirds we occasionally have to shake off the top of the mast.  Second, a mob of seagulls fighting over the pilings of the breakwater surrounding the marina. I like waking up to bird noises because it reminds me that I’m in my bed on the water, but this is ridiculous—the squawking and screaming of what sounds like hundreds of gulls, but really is just dozens of bickering birds. The unspoken rule seems to be “one bird per piling” although there’s plenty of room for two or three, and there are often empty pilings further along the sea wall. I’ll notice a lull—everyone seems happy for the time being—each bird preening or resting on his own piling. Then a new bird comes along, or one that decided to move to a new piling, and as he tries to alight, he sets the entire flock to squawking. The conversation, if I may be so bold as to translate from Gull-ese, would go something like this:

“No, you can’t land here, this piling is occupied.”
“No, not here either.”
“Go away!”
“Hey, that’s no fair. Did you see that? He took my spot! Here, move over and let me share.”
“I don’t care what he did to you, you can’t share my piling!”
“Can’t have mine either”
“He took her piling! I can’t believe this. We should all move over and make more space.”
“You make some space; I’m staying here. This is my piling.”

On and on it continues, for about ten minutes. Then everyone gets settled again and there is peace for a few moments. Does this remind you of anyone you know? Sadly, I recognize that pattern from our own house, or boat, rather, with a few small changes: “He pinched me.” “She took my toy without asking.” “He broke something he didn’t build.” “She’s hogging the potty.” “He hit me.”  I often ignore the petty bickering, allowing the children the opportunity to practice conflict resolution on their own, or, if it merits my attention, step in as arbitrator (I try not to play judge-and-jury).  My husband mused recently that the boys would have fewer arguments if they didn’t share a room, something that would actually be dire punishment to them both.

Anyone who has had to downsize will recognize the temporary difficulties of diminished personal space. It feels for a little while as if you are on top of each other—arguments flare up, shared items are in constant demand by two or more parties, and no one can get away from the offending person or situation. And then everyone finds a little space of their own and things settle down for awhile. Really, the whole world is like that. Just as there may be plenty of space further down the sea wall and the birds bicker over a few more-desirable spots, the whole world seems to want the same piece of real estate—like Israel, for example. There’s plenty of room in Siberia, but nobody wants that piling. Why can’t we all just get along?

The answer is that we humans are hopelessly selfish, squabbling and grasping endlessly for our own wants and needs—we come out of the womb saying “Mine!” (If you don’t believe me, you must not have ever lived with a newborn.) And the solution to the problem? There is only one cure for selfishness. It is an accursed and nearly-impossible feat, akin to suicide: slay the self. I am no proponent of drinking the tainted Kool-Aid, mind you, merely of placing my needs in their proper place, under the authority of the Creator-God and His law of love. Ironically, when one gives himself entirely to God (not merely to a set of religious beliefs or rules), He re-establishes that self in its true form, as it was created to be. I am never more myself than when I have denied myself for another’s sake. I am then the nobler, truer, braver, freer self—not because of self-love, but because I love another enough to consider his needs first.

A loving family is the perfect place to learn this. Though it would temporarily solve the problem. we are not going to send everyone to their own Siberia to have peace and quiet. We are instead going to do the opposite and force people to work their problems out and stick together until they find fellowship. (I once chained my two oldest boys together and made them stay that way all day. Their crying turned to laughing by lunch time, when they simply had to cooperate to get any eating accomplished. I have no idea how they managed the bathroom.) I can’t say that I know the secret to living well in close quarters, as we are still struggling quite a bit with our selfish natures. But, somehow in the confined space in which we find ourselves, better, truer and nobler people are being forged.  Whatever solution you may come up with on your own, the problem of selfishness results in nothing short of war, whether it be fighting over pilings, toys, or property. When put into a cramped space where we don’t get what we think we deserve, humans are no better than bickering birds.