an essay by Nona Martin Stuck / photos by Brent Fleury

Downsizing was never a word that applied to my life. When I thought of it at all, it was in reference to a big heartless corporation and layoffs, or an elderly couple choosing to move from their sizable family residence to a tidy cottage in a retirement community, fewer stairs and minimal upkeep. Neither had anything to do with me, fit and active, happily tending the spacious house in Columbia, South Carolina, where my then husband and I were rearing our four children. Only an hour’s drive from the grandparents, there was a big kid-friendly yard, a light-filled, open kitchen, cherished art, a grand piano and the round, polished mahogany dining table, crafted from my design by a friend—the setting for so many loud and lively holiday gatherings. I had spent 20 years feathering that nest, tending and nurturing the friendships and bonds that were such big parts of our lives there. Home was, for me, a large and busy place, filled with the people and things I loved.

When it all imploded, by way of a divorce, I was blindsided, as unprepared for the changes as if I had suddenly sprouted wings or been abducted by aliens. While my children were unquestionably shaken by the dissolution of the marriage, they were a secure and level-headed bunch, adjusting to the new “family normal” with relative ease. The same, however, did not appear to be true for me. As someone who had always considered herself capable and in control, I was, almost overnight, transformed into a muddleheaded mess, frequently waking in the wee hours to wander through the rooms I would soon be vacating, running my hand along an upholstered chair back or brushing a nonexistent spot of dust from a gilded picture frame. “These are my things,” I whined to myself. “This is my space. I don’t want to move. I don’t want to change.” But as I often reminded my children over the years, whining won’t get you what you want. And as it turns out, I was right.  

The transition from more than 5,000 square feet to less than 900 was, in retrospect, one of the most important life lessons I ever tackled. Divesting myself of the material symbols of my former life began with the sale of my home, the place in which I had spent most of my marriage. An old oak hall tree sat on the landing halfway up the stairs, its bench seat once the designated “time out” chair for minor infractions of house rules. And in the living room stood the elegantly shabby torch lamp, its original milk-glass globe having years before been shattered across the Steinway by the gentle rocking motion of a tiny diapered explorer exercising his new walking skills. 

As much as I loved the house and its contents, it was too big and expensive, filled with these kinds of stealthy memories, likely to jump out at me when I least expected them. Still, the selling process was stressful, the tension only occasionally broken by one of those ridiculous real estate moments: an agent walking into the kitchen with two clients and coming upon an adventurous possum making its way in through the cat door. By the time someone made an offer and signed a contract, I was more than ready to move on to the next step: disposing of the furniture, rugs and art, the flotsam and jetsam of almost three decades of marriage.

I spent a weekend sitting on a butt-numbing metal folding chair in a harshly lit warehouse watching as, one by one, those symbols went on the auctioneer’s block. It was an exercise in reminiscence, as intriguing as it was painful. Looking around, it was easy to separate the anxious sellers, my fellows in leaving the past, from the potential buyers, mostly young couples, enthralled with each other and the prospect of starting their lives together. I had been half of a pair like that. I shook myself and sat up straighter in the uncomfortable chair. That was then, but this was now, and I was determined to make it work. I flinched a little less when the auctioneer’s gavel cracked, and his “sold!” rang out. By the end of the day I had begun to experience a kind of lightness, an almost physical sensation of becoming unencumbered.

Having at last determined what I didn’t want, I had to decide what I did want. An oil painting of my children, very young and captured perfectly in a rag-tag and reluctant pose, would be with me wherever I landed, as would a framed Certificate of Proficiency, dated May 31, 1941, awarded to my father upon his graduation from the U.S. Army’s School for Bakers and Cooks. These things were not negotiable. But what else I could keep would depend on the kind of space I was headed for.

Given that my children were all adults, my health good and my craft portable, the big-picture options were varied and exciting, ranging from a house in Red Lodge, a small town snugged down in the Beartooth mountains of Montana, to an apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, to a tiny condo in an old building in downtown Asheville. As different as these places were from one another, I could imagine flourishing in any of them, envisioning myself as a street-smart Manhattan writer, a cowgirl essayist or a member of the Asheville arts scene. Wise and concerned friends suggested that I take things slowly, approach the choice in a logical manner, consider the consequences of moving to a new place where I had no ties, no safety net. Read the literature, they suggested. Do the math. After all, they reminded me gently, none of us was getting any younger. While I respected the advisors, there was another voice, rising occasionally above theirs, more insistent, that was telling me to go with my instincts. Asheville was perhaps the riskiest option, as I knew no one there and had no built-in support. What it did have, though, was a vital and vibrant creative community, and a year-round walkability, which I loved.

One day, in an attempt to avoid all the voices—and the prospect of making a decision—I sorted through a box of household miscellanea, some to keep, some to give away, most to toss. There were vacation Bible-school art projects, macaroni necklaces and the like, and keys to bicycle locks long since lost. I felt the odd lightness again as I let go of each no-longer-needed item. And then, near the bottom of the pile, I came upon a small framed piece, black cross-stitching on a white background, purple violets decorating the corners. It had been stitched many years before by the owner of that dissenting voice, my younger, braver self. “No guts, no glory,” it proclaimed, and I sat in the middle of the kitchen floor and laughed until I cried. I dusted it off and went to the phone. Within two days, I signed papers for the condo in Asheville. It was small, and in an unfamiliar city, but my intuition told me it was the right place for me—a place where I could begin the next chapter of my life, downsized into my new definition of home.