When Douglas and I moved back to the States after living
two years in Munich and two years in Uzbekistan we bought a small house and
awaited the arrival of three shipments of stuff from three different countries.
Thank God they didn’t all arrive on the same day. We purposefully bought a
small house so that we’d be forced to get rid of things we no longer needed,
wanted, used or recognized, things that were no longer operable, no longer fit,
things with holes that shouldn’t have holes, rusty things . . . I could go on,
but I’d only further embarrass myself.
It isn’t easy getting rid of things. I was raised by
parents who are not hoarders, but will not get rid of something that can be of
use. They still have two old toilets in the backyard (they’ve planted flowers
in them – charming). The last time I was home I cleaned out the pantry and put
no fewer than a dozen old butter tubs, dried, cracked shoe polish that left my
bare hands clean when handled, a single boot lace to a pair of boots no longer
in the house . . . again, I could go on, but I’d further embarrass my parents.
My father would not let me get rid of the two rusty wheelbarrows, both with
flat tires, one with a hole in it. I know it’s classic to blame one’s parents
for one’s flaws so let me say that it is only their fault through the age of,
say 25 or so, after that it’s on us. It took me a little longer. I’m 53. I've since learned that this goes way back in our family. At my grandmother's house my mother found a box full of white polyester pants, a drawer full of artificial corsages and the old coal bin in the basement full of jars. When asked why she had all this, my grandmother replied simply that she may need them one day.
Douglas and I were inspired in part by the popular book
“the life-changing magic of tidying up” by marie kondo. (Lower case as per the
book.) Part of the book is about deciding what to get rid of, part is about
organizing what you keep. While she has some odd suggestions – saying ‘thank
you’ to an object when getting rid of it – she has some surprisingly effective
ones – holding each object in your hands before deciding whether or not to keep
it. Douglas and I agreed to read this book before our stuff arrived and abide
(more or less) by what it said. (Don’t tell Douglas, but I never actually
finished reading it.)
When I began to unpack boxes some of the decision making
was easy. When I pulled out an item and a heavy sigh was accompanied with the
thought, “Where am I going to put this?”
It went in the discard pile. Likewise, when I pulled something out, clutched it
to my chest, did a little dance and called Douglas at work to say, “Guess what
I found?” I kept it.
But what about all the in-between stuff? Ms. Kondo tells
her readers to hold each item in their hands and ask, “Does this bring me joy?”
This worked well with books and decorative things. My socks and the doormat
don’t bring me joy, but I’m not going to get rid of them.
One of the most difficult categories of things to get rid
of is memorabilia. For Douglas and I this included: school yearbooks, theater
programs (from shows we were in as
well as shows we attended), awards, souvenirs and gifts. Here’s how I handled
it. I looked at my life overall and realized that most of those things came
from a time in my life when I was a very different person and not as content
with my situation as I am today. I realized, as I unpacked these things, that
they brought back as many or more bad memories as they did good. Why would I
want those reminders?
Souvenirs, for example. When I was young, I had shelves
covered with things bought on vacations. Our family took great vacations – to
Alaska, Vancouver, Santa Barbara, the Sierras – but every vacation came with a
price. Growing up in my parents’ home I had no choice but to pay that price. As
an adult I discovered that I didn’t have to pay any tolls I didn’t want to pay,
I could turn and go another direction. And I did. Seeing knick-knacks from
family vacations always stirred up the reality of my childhood situation deep
in my brain, in a place that was so subtle and latent that I wasn’t consciously
aware of its stirring. And whenever the little China doll or Lake Havasu
playing cards or the seashell necklace showed up, I was, on some deep, buried
level, forced to pay that price once more. I was brought back to my childhood
bedroom, lying on my bed, escaping the turmoil of the day, trying not to
bankrupt myself of happiness by staring at my collection of souvenirs and
remembering the happiness I found in using my allotted money to buy that mini oil lamp or that turtle-shaped candle. Those times
aren’t real anymore, so I don’t want the constant reminders of what was.
That’s the darker side of my benefitting from ridding
myself of stuff. On the lighter side, we aren’t as tempted by every artifact we
see, now that we’ve decided that we want less stuff. In Tashkent we both took
Uzbek folk music lessons at the Embassy. Douglas learned to play the doira – an
Uzbek fold drum – and I learned traditional Uzbek folk singing. One day, when
returning to our compound after my lesson, I noticed a new gate guard and
stopped to introduce myself. In my limited Russian, I told him that I was
returning from my music lesson. He asked me what I was learning. I showed him
my music and he started singing. I joined him, he started playing the doira
part on the desk and this Uzbek, likely Muslim, man and this Christian woman
stood eye to eye and sang smiling through an old folksong together. That holds
more value than any piece of pottery, jewelry or rug. Stories instead of stuff;
experiences instead of artifacts.
Today when we look at what we have, our eyes rest on
things we truly love. The bookcases are filled with books we would buy again
rather than those likely never-to-be-read. Our walls have pictures we have chosen
in nice frames also of our choosing. The decorative bowls, glasses and art are
all beautiful, at least to us, which is what counts. The absence of things past
brings on a presence of today’s vital reality. It helps me move forward to
becoming the woman I want to become – the one who strives for betterment – and
leave behind the less developed person I was – the one who settled. I will
continue to give the physical space in my house more thought than a director
would a Broadway theater set. It will hold the things that my husband and I
need to fulfill our chosen roles in the world’s stage, things that speak of who
we are. And the memories I will keep where they take up no space – in my heart.
