but the framed picture hurt. Not just physically. My Dad gave me that print. He was proud I liked the image, my friends thought it was weird and wonderful that I liked it (Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights). My Dad was impressed that I, a kid at the time, liked it. So he got a good museum print and had it professionally matted in a good frame. I teared up as I drove off yesterday, leaving the frame in the swap shop.
Obviously, I can live without it. The frame was tweaked but not broken. However, I need to honor not only my past, but who I am NOW. And here/now I have a lot of frames, because DH is an artist and works with a local gallery. I know many people who make art, frame art, etc. Frames, matted art, artwork, and framing materials are one category of clutter here. I didn’t need it. I don’t need it to remember it. But I was tearing up as I left the dump yesterday.
Usually, it’s just stuff. Some better, some worse, but I have little if any attachment to the individual pieces any more.
I bought the Madame Chic book yesterday after I saw the doctor. It seems the reason it appeals just now is that the underlying philosophy is essentially: keep only the best and use it every day. Almost opposite the attitude of, “I’m vile, something to hide, I deserve nothing.” which is the underlying attitude of my shame.
I guess the lesson here is as usual, measure the distance from the beginning, not the distance to the final goal. Every step is a step — and counts — but some will hurt. Do it anyway.