I have finally let go of some of my things to the CHH sale. It was actually very hard and scary thing to do. I worried and fretted over each piece. Wondered at the way to price them as there are different methods to figure this. Would they sell or would they all be coming home again? Would someone love that one as much as I do or would someone love that one that is so ugly to me but they might see something good in it? Would I be excited if most of it sold or would I be depressed that little sold? Would I be excited if so much that I liked came home again or would I be depressed that favorites were gone forever? Such mixed up feelings.
So my thoughts turned to Anne Bradstreet’s poem “The Author to Her Book”. You see, she was a Puritan poet. She wrote mostly privately but her brother, unbeknownst to her, took her poems and had them published. She was shocked by this and thus came this wonderful poem about her children being thrust out into the world and not thinking them quite ready for it yet. And considering that mine all have to do with weaving, one part of her poem is rather humorous by comparison.
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save home-spun cloth, i’ th’ house I find.
I definitely know the feeling. I so felt some of them could have looked better if only it wasn’t this brain and hands trying to fix them up.
Anyway you need to read the whole of the poem as she struggles with her “children” leaving home in what she feels is a so unprepared manner. I feel the same some myself.
But anyway off they are and despite not getting pictures of everything that went, I will see how they fair in the big wide world.