I recently and rather unexpectedly had a move of residence. If you’ve moved, you know what that means. Endless boxes of crap and stuff to go through, sort, and either keep or chuck in the bag destined for Goodwill.
While excavating the layers of watercolor paper, markers, drawing supplies, and old photography class paper in my “Art Tote” I realized that I probably hadn’t seen the bottom of that particular tote in over a decade. And I decided that that in of itself was a really sad observation on the amount of stuff I have.
I’ve been thinking about this topic a lot lately… it’s been taking up a lot of space in my head after a close friend and I were discussing it. Someone near and dear to my friend had died, and she was in a position to inherit some valuable antiques from the estate. Assuming I understood her correctly, the big reason as to why she had been living with immediate family for her entire life (she’s over 40) was for a chance to inherit these antiques. I couldn’t wrap my brain around that fact. Don’t get me wrong, my family has some pretty nifty pieces of furniture that down the road I am likely to see come my way. But my main reason for keeping such an object would be the family history behind it, and not the object itself. While I know that the family history behind the item was a part of my friend’s interest, she was also seemingly very interested in the objects themselves. Not as items to be used, though. As items to be kept like an object in a museum.
I was completely stymied by my friend’s modification of her own life for a lottery ticket of chance on, well, objects. Things. Stuff. Material goods. Crap that takes up room in a house.
Maybe it’s because I was very close emotionally with a hoarder at one point in time. I watched him miss out on having friends over for years because of the state of the house. I watched him slowly lose the use of several rooms in the house because of stuff piled in every nook and cranny that crept like a plague and spread throughout each room.
Call me judgmental, but that feels like a very sad and truncated way to live life. I think I’m gonna go unpack some boxes, and reassess what I thought was so needful only a short time ago when I changed residences. As I keep discovering with every emptied box, much of what I get rid of is neither necessary nor needful to keep, (despite my thoughts to the contrary prior to this move) and somehow, every box that I take to Goodwill seems to lighten my spirit.