JUST THINGS?

I suppose all of us are advised, or we tell ourselves, “Get rid of all the stuff,” the things we’ve accumulated over the years—things we have purchased, maybe impulsively, or because they were on sale, or because we always wanted to have one of those things. Some things may be a gift, or a thing we’ve inherited from a family member. 

There is common sense advice for getting rid of things, clutter or not. Have you used it in the last year (or years)? Start small, sort into like groups. Gather the obvious trash: expired products, broken goods, or dried-up cosmetics. If something is valuable, try to sell it. If something is useful, donate it to a Good Will or other donation center.

I’ll admit, we have many things (AKA too much stuff). It is easier to get rid of some things than others, especially if they are not mine. My husband is not able do work around the house anymore, so I started in the garage. There were at least 5 exact same saws, every size screw driver imaginable (some the same size as others). Oh, and the hammers (how many does a person need), and more screws, bolts and nails than one could possibly use in a lifetime, probably more than it took to build the Empire State Building. There was a drawer full of the same size wrenches, a closet of extensions cords, and wires of all kinds and sizes—not identifiable for any specific purpose. I put these things in a pile with broken screens, and 50 copies of Bon Appetite magazine, an old ice chest, and called Heaps and Bounds, a great local company that will haul away everything and anything. 

Now to other stuff in our house—books, books and more books—not getting rid of them. As a former teacher of literature, it would be sacrilegious. But most other things, one might wonder why they are being kept. Yes, okay, the 5 measuring tapes, those dishes we never use to name a few. However, there are things that are not just things. They are mementos with memories and meaning associated with a person, a place or an experience. 

There is a little red jacket our son Rob (now 52) loved and wore everywhere. There are little beeswax bluebirds our first grandchild, Finn made when he was here for Christmas one year. There is a red box given to me in gratitude by a parent whose son Akira came to the school where I taught. He spoke no English when he arrived, so I met with him after school for a few months to help him with his second language. There is a little sign my granddaughter Sula made that says, “Nonna and Juju” that has hung on our bedroom door since she made it years ago. There is also a drawer full of cards from students, parents, friends and relatives with kind words of acknowledgement, concern, caring and love. 

These are things I cannot let go because of memories and meaning. Although I will always have the memories to reflect upon, it is the physical "thing" that represents the memory or experience— that I can hold in my hand—press to my heart. 

To me they are are things of beauty, as poet John Keats wrote in his “Endymion”:

         A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:

            Its lovlines increases; it will never

            Pass into nothingness; but still will keep

            A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

            full of sweet dreams, and health, and 

                    quiet breathing