Cathy Bowman,  March 13, 2007

We have a ghost, and he's a drunk.  He came to us we bought a small pine refectory table from a second-hand shop. The table had soul, and the price was right. I was sure it had been loved – in a church, perhaps, or in a boy's school. My husband brought in the dinner plates and for himself, a glass of red wine. What made his hand slip? Like a horror movie, the red stuff splattered everywhere  – on the white couch, the beige carpet,  the radiator – even the walls. I said a bad word and ran for the paper towels. My 7-year-old called my parents. “We're having a disaster,”  she said. We blotted. We prayed. My husband apologized. I wish I could tell you I consoled him. But I gave him The Look that needs no translation: “Why didn't you use a sippy cup?” Then I remembered. The table had come from a troubled soul who drank himself to death. It was his ghost who made my husband spill. England has plenty of them. As for ours, I've asked it to leave. The stains? They're gone. Almost.

Cathy Bowman,  March 10, 2007

Now that we’ve left the US, my 7-year-old loves her new school, my husband is relaxed, and the baby just learned to walk, so she is happy, too. And me? I am lost. I look the wrong way when crossing the street. I’m confused by the money. But I wanted this move, and I never expected culture shock. Every spiritual class I have ever taken has led me to this journey. I've traveled around the world. I was a Peace Corps volunteer. I've gone camping with a baby. I even studied British customs. I am 45. If I didn't jump now, I never would.  When the sun finally appeared the other day, I walked along the Thames. The geese nibbled on bread crusts. Three faded rowboats bobbed in the water.  An old man in Wellingtons walked his gleaming Irish setter. I felt as if I had stepped into a 19th century painting. I hadn't cried in three days. At last, I could say it: I am on my path. I am finally on my path.

Cathy Bowman,  March 1, 2007

I am a pack-rat. In the days of primitive man, I would have won the Golden Tusk award for Gatherer of the Year. As I got ready to move from California to England, I had to empty my cave.  With so many books devoted to clutterholics, I've been wondering why most of us still have bulging closets. I think it's because facing our clutter means facing our mortality. Should I save my sixth grade yearbook? What about the hat I bought in Paris? When I say goodbye, a voice asks: are the best years gone?  No, Virginia, of course not! The beauty of aging is I can't remember what I took to Goodwill. All of the big boo-boos—the sexy mules that pinch my toes, the golf clubs I never use—gone. I have read Karen Kingston's "Clear Your Clutter With Feng Shui" more times than I can count. The tricky part is dealing with the stuff I kinda, sorta like. I've been trying to keep only things I feel passionate about - and teach my kids to do the same.  The other day I was helping my 7-year-old daughter clean out her room when we came across a box of my old dolls. Did she want them? "It's up to you, Mom," she said. "I don't really have an attachment to them." (OUCH!)