thinking through the process of change

I have too many things, she said, looking around her little townhouse. That's my problem. Too much furniture and too many books.

She touched her bookshelves lovingly, scanning the titles. Maybe I could sell some of these and make room. But no, each book had been carefully selected for its contents or its cover or how it opened when balanced in the hand. Why make room? She thought. I would only buy more books.

She glanced at the furniture in the living room. New, and not very comfortable. But now that she had it  --- she had bought it for company, though she seldom had any -- she didn't want to get rid of it. Her more comfortable furniture, well, that had sentimental value. And her desk was an antique, almost. She had painted it herself, when? Fifteen years ago now. She remembered painting it black and then moving it to her new apartment after the divorce. No, she couldn't get rid of the desk. It was a sign of independence.

Maybe I just need a bigger place, she said, and then remembered how she loved this little townhouse on the edge of town, close by the mountains and nearly hidden from the highway. If I moved to a house, I might be too far from the neighbors. What would happen then if I got sick or injured? And I would never feel safe.

No, she said. I probably need to be more organized. Satisfied with that decision, she picked a book off the pile on the floor and leafed through it. Then she gazed out the window, watching a hummingbird darting at the wild flowers. The sun was bright and the sky a lovely blue. She turned back and looked around her living room. It seemed crowded. She frowned. I have too many things, she said.