For The Sake Of Keeping

Earlier this week I had a lot on my mind. Nothing too heavy. Logistical things. I'm still dealing with a transportation setback. I had some difficulty finding a product I wanted to buy. And the three-hour time difference between me and my two oldest children kept interfering with our attempts to communicate. First-world problems, really. But they caused a great deal of mental clutter.

When my mind feels too full, I find that getting physically active helps me feel better. Taking a break from thinking generally leads to breakthrough problem-solving. I come to see things in a different light.

The physical activity I chose to clear my mental clutter ironically involved removing physical clutter. I spent some time emptying boxes, rearranging storage bins, and reminiscing and cringing as I looked through old photos and read old journal entries. Hours flew by and I barely scratched the surface.

I have so much stuff.

I began to wonder about the nature of the things I have chosen to keep. I've lost and thrown away many things in my lifetime but fiercely hold on to many others. How do I decide what makes the cut? What makes something a keepsake? Why do I hold on to some items while others are easily discarded? What's so special about that shirt I got when I was ten? Why have I lugged letters and notebooks from high school from home to home across the country for over three decades?

Why do I have so much stuff?

When I was a teenager my family moved from New York to Georgia. I don't think I was aware of it at the time but we had some financial hardships. Some of our belongings were put in storage and, later, lost to us for good. I had lost so much already in the move---my friends, my room, New York. Losing household items deepened my sadness. I have kept letters and cards and journals ever since.

There's loss and sadness mixed up with the things I choose to keep. When my father died, I gathered every scrap piece of paper that had his handwriting on it from his room. I felt it was all I had left of him and I couldn't bear to let one scrap slip away. The papers were the beginnings of plays, poems, and college notes. There are scraps of paper with phone numbers and to-do lists. They gave me glimpses into the life of a man I adored though his addictions kept us separated for much of my life. Periodically, I read my dad's papers and weep for my loss. I also marvel at his creativity. But something's missing. I feel like I should do more.

What am I going to do with all this stuff?

I inherited my grandparents' china and stemware. For years, I kept them safely in boxes in the garage. When I no longer had a garage, I kept them in a storage unit. When I no longer wanted to pay for the storage unit, I brought them into the kitchen. Finally, I decided to use them. First, only on special occasions like Christmas dinner. Then I made it a point to use them at least monthly. Eventually, the dishes became a part of my everyday life. I used the saucers for offerings at my ancestor altar. I propagated plant cuttings in cocktail glasses. My kids were able to drink their juice from champagne flutes. My relationship with my grandparents deepened with each use. We talked more about them. We imagined what their dinner parties were like. What did they talk about? What did they wear? Was there ever any drama? I retold memories of my grandparents’ home in Columbus while sipping tea from the same cup they may have used for their morning coffee. You might say that their belongings strengthened our sense of belonging.

I want to do more than just keep things. I want to have relationships with the items I hold dear. I don’t quite know what that means for my teenage journals and pen pal letters. I’m not sure what to do with my father’s writings. I do know that I want more than a sense of loss when I think of my keepsakes. Boxes in garages don't really exude much life. And I want my kept things to live.

Categories: : Wellness