Clutter surrounds me. It’s not intentional; it’s just the inevitable accumulation of a lifetime spent chasing material happiness.
The irony of its impotency has not escaped me these past few years, in which lack of physical ability has rendered it all superfluous. What I once hoped would lift me up, now weighs heavily on my mental state. Simplicity is what I crave now.
“We should sell off all the excess,” I suggest to my husband. “Call it our retirement fundraiser.”
He opens his bedside stand and hands me a half-dozen watches. “Start with these,” he offers tossing them onto the bed.
I had no idea they were there.
We have curio cabinets full of Royal Doultons, and good china packed away that I never remember to use, and a whole storage unit full of stuff that I have not set foot inside for the better part of three years.
What were we thinking? I guess that’s the point – accumulation is a mindless activity; it’s an in-the-moment impulse that serves only for instant gratification.
“What about heirlooms, though?” a friend asks, when I tell our scheme. “Wouldn’t you feel guilty about giving those away?”
I had a house full of antiques once, all inherited from a father-in-law whom I loved dearly. Lost them all in the divorce. While it saddened me temporarily, I have long since forgotten them. He, however, lives on warmly in my heart.
“We passed an antique dresser onto one of the kids once; he sold it.”
There are no guarantees that the things we hold onto will have any meaning for those beyond us.
“I will give the kids first dibs.”
I posted the Doultons and watches for sale yesterday. Have had two inquiries. Nothing has moved yet, except for a bubbling up inside me: almost a feeling of excitement, as if my inner selves are emitting a collective sigh of relief.
Finally, they are expressing, she’s making room for us to breathe.