My New Relationship with Stuff

"All that he really knew was that if he stayed here he would soon be the property of a lot of things that buzzed and snorted and hissed, that gave off fumes and stenches. In six months he would be the owner of a large pink, trained ulcer, a blood pressure of algebraic dimensions, a myopia this side of blindness, and nightmares as deep as oceans and infested with improbable lengths of dream intestines through which he must violently force his way each night."
-Ray Bradbury, The Illustrated Man

When I came across this quote, it seemed particularly relevant to me. I certainly don't have such an extreme view of my worldly possessions, but my experiences have made me reevaluate their worth to me.

During my Peace Corps service I had a lot. I had luggage and couch cushions that stank of cat urine; I had books eaten by termites before I ever got around to reading them to my kids; I had cheap utensils and plates and kitchen supplies and hangers and closet organizers. But I didn't have too much, which made it very easy to leave my house with only one large hiking backpack on my back and a small backpack across my chest. What was nice about my time in Panama was not feeling burdened by my possessions.

In my last days, when I had towels and kitchen utensils and appliances and clothes I wanted to get rid of, all I had to do was go walking down the street offering things. (Quick aside: Peace Corps discouraged us from doing that, since it would set a bad precedent to potential future volunteers of giving things instead of selling them. Did I care? Meh.) People were more than willing to accept; some even felt flattered that I had remembered them during my last days in country. Although I did accumulate some trash that went off to be burned far from my sight, I didn't waste too much. I cooked for one, and when I had leftovers, the cat, my host mother's dog, the neighbor’s chickens, or any other creature was more than willing to help me avoid waste.

I was living somewhat of a minimalist lifestyle the whole time, mainly because I knew that at some point I would have to pick up and leave. I could take stock of everything within a few minutes.

So I came back to the States with that same mentality. I got home and have spent the last year trying to clear things out, not to make space for new things, but simply to make space, to unburden myself. And burdened I was: years of old college papers and textbooks, skeins of cheap acrylic yarn I would never use, clothes that no longer fit, old relics I felt odd throwing away, but didn't have anywhere else to put, and much more. I lived more or less comfortably in Panama with a fraction of the things I have at home, so why was any of that still hanging around?

I read up on becoming minimalist, and came across a phrase that I really enjoyed: don't de-clutter, de-own. So I set out to get rid of things, and by doing so, realized that they had little worth. I sought to remove not only the item, but the mental block that led me to believe I needed it in the first place.

It was easy to get rid of things that were old, worthless, ruined, etc. Goodbye clothes destroyed by the Panamanian wash cycle. Goodbye golf clubs I haven't used in nearly a decade. As I worked at downsizing, I found that a feeling even more satisfying than organizing things into a plastic storage container was getting to the point that I could empty one out and set it aside, vowing not to refill it again. Many possessions caused no anxiety and went off to the Salvation Army without hesitation. More difficult was parting with things that had nothing inherently wrong with them, but were, nevertheless, things that had to go. Why? Because I wasn't using them, wearing them, reading them, whatever.

I had to downsize, and as I did it, I felt better and better. It was cathartic to rid myself of certain things like, for example, old aprons my brother and I had to wear as part of the uniform for caddying. I haven't caddied since I was maybe fourteen or fifteen. Why keep that stuff? Only because it conveniently hid in a plastic tub. Why was it cathartic? Because I absolutely hated caddying. I read through old warm fuzzies from Dicks and Janes, and relived some of those memories. Then I threw away the tiny notes, sheet music, and other things from those days. I reviewed the Chinese I hadn't looked at in years, reminding myself of the great progress I made in a language completely outside of my realm of knowledge. Now, I am uploading digital copies and can recycle the textbooks.

I learned that Best Buy accepts old CDs, DVDs, controllers, remotes, and cords for recycling. That was very nice. I filled our home recycling over and over with papers, even an old newspaper from 9/11. Every time I took boxes and bags to Salvation Army or St. Vincent de Paul, I felt great. Honestly, it wasn't because I knew someone else might get use out of it, which could very well happen, but because I could feel lighter, like the gravity brought on by my worldly possessions was getting lighter.

Ridding myself of books was tough. My love of reading manifests in my collection of books. I spent years buying and collecting books, a fair number of which I have actually read. I was proud to be able to look at my bookshelf and say I'd read 50, 60, 70% of all those books, a fair amount of which are in Spanish, thank you very much. Don Quijote in the original language? Life accomplishment: check.

It got to the point, however, where they wouldn’t all fit on my bookcase. I had to really ask myself: Am I actually going to read these books again and again? When the answer was no, I would give the book away. If the answer was anything but a resounding yes, I was resigned to giving it away. Even now I'm trying to read through what I've never read so I can shave down the collection more than I have already done. I'm rediscovering the wonderful resource that is the library. And shoot, I'm not about to reach the limit on the Kindle anytime soon.

What's hardest is to look around and not automatically do it with the rest of the family. I would clean the house out top to bottom of everything we don't use regularly... if I could. But I realize it's not my decision to make. My mom fears that if she leaves me alone in the house, it'll be empty when she gets back. Mom is coming around though. My enthusiasm is infectious, and now she wants to clean out closets. After his stuff, we can get around to hers…

I have friends who, when I tell them I’m “going minimalist,” think that minimalism is code for living with nothing at all. It isn't. While I did pile (and continue to pile) loads upon loads for goodwill or garbage, it doesn't mean I want nothing. I want what I keep to have value. I want what I keep to be of actual use to me, to not fall apart, to fit properly, etc. So I got rid of a lot of things that didn't fit that criteria.

I still have nice things, though. As my first celebratory “back in ‘Merica” purchase, I threw down for a pair of Ray Bans. To me, this means I need to a) wear them regularly, b) keep them safe in the case, and c) keep them clean, all to make the purchase worth it. Hey, me, remember that fancy D-SLR camera you bought years ago and have barely used? Well, now I’m going to improve my photography skills and start using that bad boy. I must treat everything as an investment. I should only buy it if it is worth taking care of, and keeping for a while.

I think this is my way of looking toward the future. By decreasing the number of things still at the house I grew up in, the place I have lived almost my entire life, I can free myself and be ready for the next step of my journey, whatever and wherever it is.