I Have Too Much Stuff

When I look in the mirror, I see a reflection of my physical self, but that reflection is not who I am. Who I am is beneath the skin that’s weathering and the hair that’s graying. Who I am is behind my eyes, folded into the layers of my heart and the light the burns brightly in my soul.

The outside world is a reflection too. There’s a piece of my identity in stacks of books, in curated and collected possessions, and unfortunately, in the excesses of modern life that surround me. In the past several days, I’ve come to a very simple and comfortable resolve: I have too much stuff.

In trying to sell our home, we staged it. By moving out large pieces of furniture, we supposedly made it look bigger. In packing up personal pictures and all those little curated items that we’ve picked up along the way, we made our home look neutral. We put half our stuff in storage-- furniture and personal items. It didn’t help the sale. Neither did dropping the price multiple times. Then one day, I’d had enough. Not our time. Not our market. Bring back the stuff from storage.

Bringing back all these things into the house is when that simple resolve came to me. An unexpected gift from the universe. Seventy-three years of living, which includes a thirty-five year marriage added up to the accumulation of too much. How did I wind up with three sets of dishes? Or with so much décor, a nicer word for something that amounts to decorations, everything from baskets to an unbelievable number of Christmas themed platters.

For the past seven days, I’ve been sorting what to keep and what to give away. There are a lot of sentimental items, but are they worth keeping? That shell I brought with me when I left Los Angeles, a little something to remind me of the ocean? Maybe I should give that to the forest. The sorting process made me wonder if when I die, my nieces will simply call a junk removal company?

There should be a ceremony for everything that’s left over at the end of a life. A procession of sorts to the thrift store or the dumpster. Please raise the teapot that my mother gave to me into the air and march it with a gentle goodbye to the trash . . . but then I think, someone should save this. It makes such a pretty vase for flowers. That’s the kind of sentiment that got me too much stuff.

We are like other animals who gather and bring things into their dens and nests to make it home. Some things are essential and even add beauty, but unlike other animals, we tend to need and want more. And the accumulation of things gets tangled up with who we think we are. Just like looking in the mirror, the reflection is not us. Things are not us.

As with many Americans, I’ve been groomed by advertising and credit cards to consume. That has led to consciously or unconsciously feeding a sense of scarcity. Is it enough? Will I have enough. . . time, money, love, art? Will I be enough? Will what I make be good enough? These are quiet whispers most of have, but edit out of our conversations.

The act of sorting of what is essential from what is too much has taken on meaning. I am not my things. A large pile of donations gathers in my garage. And I keep asking myself questions, mining the depths of this shadow aspect of me that cannot seem to get enough.

I know I’m not here to accumulate, consume and then die. So, what is the purpose unfolding before me? How does that purpose contribute to or diminish what I stand for? To what do I swear my fidelity? Certainly not more things.

A sacred mystery always lingers near by. It’s not the result of physical appearances, or sentimental objects. It doesn’t cost anything but my stillness. It will only take up space in my heart. The mystery is in breathing in the sky and trees, and resting in the spirit which feels grateful for the moment. Human contact and kindness, laughter and deep tears. This is what is essential, I tell myself. Meanwhile, the pile in the garage grows, and I realize the burden of carrying too much The “too much” has kept me from myself.

It’s been a good few days of unpacking boxes, and unpacking the questions rising up in me. “She was a really good consumer,” is not what I want written in my obituary. I’d rather my legacy be: “She was a kind woman with a generous heart.” That’s really all that lasts, not the stuff. And all this, from unpacking boxes and coming home to what feels like a more genuine and thoughtful self . . .

I won’t be giving away all of my worldly possessions and going to live in a cave anytime soon, but I think from here, I can become more mindful about how I feather my nest.

Dearest reader, I appreciate you. Thank you for being here with me. I think the feeling of having too many things; the reflections that are not really us, are universal themes for these times. Liberation is a function of what we let go of, whether in things, grievances, objections or desires.

What are you letting go of in your life? Do you ever feel like you have too many things? What’s the feeling that emerges when you let go of something? Please, let’s have a conversation.