Why do we think we have to have so much junk? Everywhere I look, there's stuff that needs to be dusted. Why do I have that frame with an ugly picture of us in it? Or the strange "holder" with a candle in it and a bird on top? It's grotesque and serves no purpose. Do I really need ten pitcher and bowls, one for every major room in the house? There are bland clocks everywhere that we've picked up as gifts from companies and vendors along the way. I have a phone, microwave, oven, computer and watch that tell me at a glance what time it is...why do I need another blurt on my horizon?
I have ended up doing a lot of real estate listings that involve estates. Most of the houses are chock full of the things left over from Ma, Pa, Aunt Josie, Grandma Smith and the next door neighbor who died. In most houses, you could actually furnish two domiciles with what is crammed in there. In America, we think we need a formal dining room as well as an eat-in kitchen, a den as well as a great room, and then a finished basement to make sure we've got a good place to sit and watch TV. We work our tails off, countless hours, rarely home, to let our homes collect dust and things...to have a pretty place to perch ourselves and veg out when we finally get off. How did we get here?
I grew up in a simple neighborhood in the 60s, with rows of plain brick ranch homes built with cookie cutter plans. Our moms stayed home and tended the unruly edges of life. Supper was almost always there, on time and healthy. Dessert was a rare treat (and so it was a treat). Us kids ran the streets and fields with abandon, then washed up for meals and bedtime. There were no video games or computers or cellphones. We talked a lot. We had conflicts and fights, but made up because there was nothing to help distract us from the thick attitudes in the air. I have put on the rosey glasses of time that cause me to forget a lot of the difficult things. I remember it sometimes being hard to not have everything I thought I wanted. But then I also knew I was lucky. One friend got off the bus to an empty house and had to avoid the advances of the creepy men her mother brought home. Another friend had all manner of ponies and outfits, but never felt loved one day of her life. Still another was imprisoned by parents whose ridiculous rules eclipsed both reason and kindness. I was thankful to know both love and boundaries where I grew up.
Do we collect things to fill up quiet spaces in our lives? Or is it to prove to ourselves that we are worthy because we have things? We collect and collect, but at the end, when the dust cries out our name and we surrender, somebody has to deal with all of it. Even the valuable things get a pittance and it's just a bunch of sweaty work. I'm doing one exercise to try and help get rid of my junk: I have signed up for two different ministries/charities to pick up at my house. Every two weeks I've got to muster out at least one bag of something to put out on the porch. Even if I'm dashing about the night before they pick up, there's nothing that I regret getting rid of in the end. I'm giving my grown kids the things that they want out of my house too. Now. Not when I'm pushing up daisies. I use the beautiful things that are in my china cabinet. When a grandbaby drops one and it crashes to smithereens, I remember it's just stuff. Things. Not people. And the less rubbish that fills up my house, the more space I have for them, both in the living room and in my brain.
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