My Conflicted Relationship with Stuff

[vdansk]

I like stuff.  Who doesn't?  And I am the product of two survivors of the Great Depression.  My Mom, whose parents aspired to be lower middle class, was caught between a need for stuff and an intuition that elegance demanded open space.  She got things and gave them away in an endless cycle.  My Dad didn't much care, beyond books--the one thing never gotten rid of!--but he couldn't refuse my Mom anything.  Not antiques, clothing, chicken, ducks, goats, pigs, beefalo, a barn, a pond, a new car...his only request was that she not take up raising elephants, and she probably could have talked him around that if she'd wanted to.

Last week I had a dream that my house was empty.  Bare walls, carpeted floors, no furniture, no stuff.  And I felt overwhelming RELIEF.  The space was breathtaking.  The possibilities felt endless.

What, in such a miraculous eventuality, would I miss?  A few childhood toys.  A few of my girls' toys that are precious to them.  Pictures.  Manuscripts of old writing projects,  Everything else could be replaced.  Even my wonderful, wonderful books could be replaced.

So...I have my next major project.  No time, of course, and a dull terror at the very idea, but I know what I need to do.

Comments

[360high.livejournal.com]

Oh yes, getting rid of stuff is wonderful. It's funny that Don has complained and complained about all my stuff we moved. Yet now that we're unpacking, he has the most boxes. I'm done with all the boxes that I packed myself. What I need to unpack (and throw away) is the things I kept telling him to pitch but he packed and moved anyway. Sigh.