Stuff

Stuff

stuff: [stuhf] –noun
1. Mater, or materials of indeterminate kind.
2. A persons’ belongings, equipment, or baggage.

Does anyone really understand how much stuff they have? I certainly didn’t. Maybe I still don’t. Let me explain…

This past week I have spent a majority of my time and energy sorting through all the things I’ve acquired throughout the past 24 years of my life. I consider myself a minimalist. I don’t have much, materially. However, as I was sorting through my things I found myself approaching my things with intense emotions. An old mirrored belt I haven’t worn in years, an old 60’s scarf my mother gave me, an old guitar strap from my father’s guitar (may I add that this guitar strap is ugly as hell). These things, I have, and I hold onto them so dearly. I won’t let go, and in some ways I just can’t. These are things I don’t use, and can’t see myself using!

Buddy too, he is terribly attached to the few things he has. For example there are six pairs of old destroyed football gloves that we must keep. Though, he will likely not play football again in life. My inquiry about the gloves made him edgy and protective.

My conclusions are that our things are the material manifestations of our memories—of our human experience. As much as we try to resist that they are—they are. As much as I try to say, “things are only things”, I admit that I am left entirely scared of getting rid of my stuff. If I get rid of my green cardigan will I still remember what happened while I was wearing it: my confirmation, my first date with Buddy, wearing it in high school to dress up before basketball games. I’ve had this ugly green sweater for ages. And I think of these memories from time to time as I wear this sweater. I love it. The truth is, that I may not remember those things without it. They may become obsolete. Forget-able. It’s scary to think that what has been done could be undone. What has been done exists in our memories. And my human memory may fail me. Sorting through stuff conjures up all the emotional baggage we carry with us. We are forced to sort through what we have been holding on to, and what we can risk no longer remembering.

This week has been entirely emotional for me, because I have faced what I hold onto—materially, and emotionally. The next time I look inside these plastic tubs I will be someone completely changed. The prospect of certain memories growing faded is the price we must pay to live rootless. This week I’ve been questioning what is more valuable: to hold tight to old memories simple as they may be, or make new ones and risk the fading of what was my reality.

I’m finding there is no simple way. Wish me luck as I sort through my stuff.