THE LETTING GO

by CARA MCDONALD

Last year, i had to orchestrate a crosscountry move. I planned to leave a lot of furnishings behind, which was the norm in our resort-community real estate market. But what was already poised to be a “Hunger Games”–style reaping became even more fraught when the movers showed up with just two U-Pack storage units instead of three. “Based on your questionnaire, we thought you’d fit in two and we’d save you some money,” they said. Cue an instant, white-hot panic.

I had to re-evaluate on the spot and immediately let things go. The threadbare Persian rug my parents had passed along for under the dining room table. The three-story rodent habitat (we were down to one rat, anyway). The Roland electric piano with seven silent keys. The dresser I had rehabbed with black paint and leather drawer pulls.

Some things were easy inclusions: My Mission rocking chair, the first piece of furniture I ever bought. Legos and model trains, beloved toys and stuffies. Framed travel posters. A Joellyn Duesberry monotype, the only real piece of art I own. Photo albums, Christmas ornaments, every magazine I’ve ever worked on. A papier-mâché sculpture my 12-year-old made of our dog, Haley, leaping skyward with turquoise dragon wings. The Nespresso machine. Skis and bikes. Ice skates.

Some baffling things made the cut. Useful: The dog’s giant Tupperware food dispenser, even with the hole chewed in it by its previous owner. Sentimental: The toasting glasses from my wedding. You-should-use-this-more: A Nambe wine chiller that’s been boxed since 2009, my Trek Madone (also mostly retired since 2009). What-was-I-thinking: A plastic bin full of fake cobwebs, candy-corn lights, a brass jack-o’ -lantern and a giant furry spider.

Then there’s the limbo stuff, cardboard boxes that are half unpacked, still moving from laundry room to garage to basement, holding things like a bridesmaid/cocktail dress, my epic collection of sports-specific gloves and mittens, my grandfather’s childhood encyclopedia set, outdated photos in Target frames. Things too difficult to sort, face or part with, but not necessary for my daily happiness.

It’s a struggle between wanting to burn it all and adopting a Japanese futon-on-the-floor minimalism, or stuffing the corners with shelves and books and ceramic owls and leggy plants.

If I were to default to my factory settings, I suppose I’d be collecting. I am sentimental about things because I’m a sentimental person, a story person. On some level, objects are where the stories live, and seeing them keeps those memories and stories close to the surface of my mental pond.

But I’m also a person who flirts with the dangerous edge of stories, too—reliving, repeating, refining, for better or worse. They can be sweet or they can be stultifying, preventing us from moving forward and creating space for what’s next.

This month’s issue could be subtitled “Something Old.” Antiques, an artist’s retrospective, the renovation of Glen Arbor’s beautiful mill, a new chapter born from a brush with mortality and the loss of a beloved local diner.

At the core of these stories’ goodness is the potential for reimagining. The Mill is a hospitality destination now, still processing wheat for bread, but also welcoming diners and overnight guests to immerse in a magical space. The antiques? Found on a road-trip challenge, for which each editor was charged with unearthing and championing just one perfect discovery to bring back to life. And writer Ellen Airgood’s new life creates a space for baking, community and love, without the crushing work and uncertainty of the diner she and her husband ran for years.

The loss and uncertainty co-exist with the nudge to leap and reinvent; it occurs to me that each of these old things has a clean slate baked into them. The best old things do.

Cara McDonald Executive Editor cara@mynorth.com