Last year, my questions were all about why grief strengthens some people and weakens others. Before that, my questions were about how to multitask 24/7. This year, they are all about my stuff.
I used to move at least every five years. The usual young couple-upwardly mobile-growing family thing allowed me to upgrade from college apartment to rented bungalow to great duplex to actual own home. That took 10 years, and then began the parade of houses, all of it spanning three towns and another 10 years.
Stuff was never a problem back then. Each new place opened up new storage options, so any new item I acquired easily found a spot. Plus, with each move it was easy to jettison the things that had outlived their usefulness. It was a tidy self-cleansing process, kind of a regular stuff enema.
The trouble began 18 years ago just before Christmas, when we bought the current house, an across-town move from a much smaller one. We quickly stashed our stuff, hosted Christmas for the extended family and got on with family life. The next time I looked up, a couple of months ago, I was surrounded, hemmed in, trapped, drowning in extra stuff which occupied nearly every nook and crevice in this once roomy house.
To understand my issues, you have to understand my marriage, a good but not easy match. Without me, my husband would probably prefer life in a sterile box devoid of any decoration save a decanter for his bourbon, a copy of This Old Cub, his favorite DVD ever, and his big screen TV.
Without him I might have inched closer to hoarder heaven. His unwillingness to tolerate visual clutter has helped me contain most of mine to my home office where I covered nearly every square inch of wall space with meaningful photos, my collections of suns and moons, a wall cabinet filled with mementos from my parents’ era, and well, you get the idea.
What he may not know and the casual observer would miss is that I also have stuff cleverly hidden in strategic locations elsewhere in the house – in antique trunks and painted chests, under the bed, and under the other bed. Meanwhile, he somehow gained custody of the upstairs closets where he can spread out his wardrobe so that each shirt has breathing space. He didn’t pee on the boundaries of his closets, but he protects them like he did. My move was to seize the basement. And fill it. As the years went on, we reached this stuff stalemate until nothing new could enter the house without something old leaving.
We lived like that in relative harmony until we recently decided to redo my office and the room next door, our bedroom, and finally remove the aqua carpeting that had come with the house and the blue paint we had added in our first year here.
Right now, the painting is done, the walls a calm beachy tan color, the new carpet is on order and the rooms are completely dismantled. Which brings me to the point where my questions kicked in.
Carrying box after box, bag after bag and stack after stack out of that office, I had my moment of truth – my stuff was unmanageable. I had to do something different to recover my freedom, my space, my lightness of being. My stuff had taken on a life of its own, like a kudzu vine wrapping itself around everything in sight. I had to take control. I resolved that I would conduct this project like a move, questioning the right of each item to re-enter the room when I move back in.
I started with my books, which are relocating to guest rooms where they will provide a gracious background for visitors. They will have a happier life there on their own, and I can visit them whenever I want.
The rest of the process will be more difficult. The interrogation will go like this. Each item will have to answer three questions to get back in:
1. What do I need you for?
Are you about the past, the present or the future? Given that, why do you need to stay?
Is your appeal practical, emotional, or spiritual? And so what?
Will I use you never, occasionally, all the time?
2. What do you say about me?
Do you reflect my whimsical side, a sad or serious time, a quality I have, an opportunity I missed?
What need were you to fill; do I still have that need?
How do I feel when I see you?
3. Would I buy you today?
Do you belong with me at this point?
Is there something else that should have your spot instead?
Is there someone else in the world who would love to have you?
Feeble answers like “But you’ve always had me,” or “You’ll never make it without me” just won’t cut it.
I have two giant boxes, in the basement of course. One will be for donations, the other for my upcoming Museum of Things I Can’t Stand to Get Rid Of But Don’t Need to See Every Day, another place I can visit if I feel the need. With this plan, I feel better already, sure that next year’s questions won’t have to have anything to do with my stuff.
Ultimately, figuring out which questions to ask when just may be the key to the life we all want. In my case, it is now too late, but I could use a do-over on some of my earlier efforts. Instead of asking how to better multitask, what if I would have explored how to become more mindful 24/7? Maybe that’s what’s coming next.
CBH 10/08
