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In our stuff-defined times, what we feel safe giving up (that cost money and was thought “necessary” at some point) says a lot about our worldview: do you believe in scarcity or abundance? I got my start in learning this lesson from catching up with my oldest childhood friend. Somehow we got to talking about stuff we save.
Her aunt had died unexpectedly that year, and my friend described her sense of sorrowful awkwardness, as she helped her father sort through belongings, having to open drawers, and go through files – feeling like an unintentional voyeur peering into the private areas of a person’s life. She also spoke of her shock at the quantity of stuff that could be accumulated in a modest studio apartment. She resolved to rid herself of what she perceived as her own unneeded excess, and reported giddiness at the reduction of those daily decisions of what to use, wear; needing enough storage and the peaceful dividend of less visual clutter.
I had been aware of, and fending off an internal nag, scolding about the absurdity of unused and unusable full cabinets and drawers; their purpose somehow frozen in time. About stacks of papers and files more like an archeological dig, than a reflection of actual current priorities. And my underlying fear, that if I were hit by the proverbial truck, I would be leaving a questionable legacy to my children, who would hate me posthumously for my childish trail of disarray and procrastination. Instead of propelling me to action, the idea held me back.
My friend encouraged me to root out the cause of these energy drains. She cautioned me to be gentle with myself, to focus on a manageable project first; that I would feel ever much lighter and victorious as I progressed. I admitted my default mode seems to be to save things “for someday”. Her knowing response became my mantra: “You need to pass things on to those who will benefit from them now, and to have faith that if you need anything again, you will be in a position to acquire replacements.”
In other words, letting go of superfluous possessions is an expression of faith and trust, and clearing out makes way for -- even invites -- new and better things to come into life.
I didn’t start small, as recommended. (Perhaps it bears mentioning that I am not typically a driven housekeeper. So when I get the uncustomary call, I energetically follow its lead -- not knowing when it might beckon again!...) I took on a major downer, a daily visual reminder of my organizational inadequacy. Lining the hall entrance from the garage, a shoe and coat storage area remained chock-a-block full of my children’s unwanted footwear, outgrown jackets, and child-size hats and gloves. Since neither “child” had lived at home in over a year, I really wasn’t being overly hasty. A by-product was to provide my more-recently moved in stepsons a place to hang their own coats. (Not that they showed any particular inclination to tidiness!...)
Given two days of persistence, the cubbies and shelves were reclaimed. An important milestone for me. That sight had too long acted as a mournful reminder of a past life; a static and dusty monument to another time and family unit. Now clean, clear, and functional, the space again serves active needs; it shows the possibility of growth out of debris.
I was learning that stuff blocks abundance, not just the obvious clutter, but also accumulated in storage areas that could be put to current use. I could see that spreading the wealth, or passing on belongings, was part of being a good steward.
Manifesting the zeal of a new convert, I made a detour to take stock of my wardrobe. I have accumulated many clothes. The number on the label notwithstanding (there has been deflation in sizing?...), the size I wear hasn’t significantly changed since my twenties. Although I’ve selectively divested over the years, the admonition that if you haven’t worn it in two years, throw it out, seems overly-sweeping to me. (No kidding!...)
Surveying my overfull closet, I heard my mother’s counsel, “Don’t keep something around that’s a reproach.” Clothes I’ve only worn once, that weren’t a good choice, or that I admit will remain too tight, cause crowding and act as a daily visual scolding. (Who needs that?) I proceeded to the attic, where bins of supposedly “seasonal storage” were packed with things I hadn’t gotten around to even looking at for several years. I filled bag after bag, and my car, and amazed the volunteers at the local thrift store with return trips.
I was motivated partly by embarrassment at all that I own that wasn’t being worn, which could be useful to others, but also realizing that these clothes spoke to me. Recalling the book title Love, Loss, and What I Wore, it came to me that visual and sensory memory clings to clothes. While we may lament that figurative baggage holds us back, real stuff is right there! Hanging in plain sight; they quietly impede moving into a more fulfilling present.
I gradually recognized my emergent criteria for keeping or discarding an item (beyond whether I was likely to wear it, or loved it) had broadened to include whether it had memories attached. My purpose clarified as clearing out loaded reminders (and reproaches). Even things I had worn and enjoyed for years went out.
Money I had spent (or might need to spend on replacements) was not considered in this rush to minimize. I was clearing out what had become burdensome. I discovered a real, albeit hidden, cost in my prudent habit of saving things. Holding on to the symbols and baggage of a bygone time effectively amounted to telling myself that I wasn’t over it. I may not have physically grown out of my clothes, but emotionally I had been moving on.
