It's Just Stuff

Part of being an adult is to learn and practice daily empathy and awareness; to do it, even when it's inconvenient or uncomfortable. For the past few weeks, I've been conducting a small, but personally significant, commitment to live simply. What does my life look like, with only the scantest of personal effects near me? Exactly what is the purpose of relinquishing my most cherished, familiar belongings – why such a drastic, and unrequired experiment?

I've been reading a good bit lately about the challenges seniors face when they leave home, due to healthcare or other quality-of-life issues. What thought processes are at work when deciding what to take and what to part with? From a lifetime's accumulation of stuff, how do you pick out those few personal artifacts, the key reminders of the person you once were? How do you downsize and still maintain your Self?

If a guest walks into my home right now, they will find nothing to identify the things and people I love, the passions I have, the causes I care about, the things I find beautiful, and compelling, and comforting. There is very little left here, and it has caused some striking journal entries, at times uplifting or crushingly sad.

No doubt, it is liberating to proudly say, "YES! I am living simply: there is more to life than stuff. How uncluttered this space is: how zen!" During the darker times, though, the now wide-open space is frightening and unfamiliar. I reach for a shirt that's no longer in the closet, a spice that's no longer in the kitchen, a book that no longer sits on a shelf that's no longer there.

Today, after an afternoon of unhurried conversation with a friend, I found myself dancing along the swept-clean, sun-dappled hardwood floors, loving this freedom of abundant space, with no worries of broken rhythm, due to in-the-way furniture. I am thinking about the minister's story today about Hearst Castle, and how Mr. Hearst accumulated, to put it simply, "lots of stuff." So much stuff, in fact, he built castles totaling more than 90,000 square feet to house it all. "And then," she continued, "do you know what he did?" We waited for her answer, which was, "He died." All that stuff, and yet, it was not enough to keep him here, and he didn't get to take any of it with him.

I've had many heart-opening ideas throughout this little experiment: about myself and about our obsessive consumerist culture. I've also struggled mightily, letting go of attachments I had with my stuff.

In the end, as I keep reminding myself, it's just stuff. And whether it's here or somewhere else, it's all going to be okay.

Be well.