susan hayward photography : On the Acquisition of Things

I've been helping a friend clean out her parents' house this week. It hasn't exactly been fun. More like educational. Enlightening, even. I've discovered something I already knew (which would make it a re-discovery, but as it's late and I'm tired, just work with me on this, okay?). All this stuff we think we need to have turns out to be the least important thing when it comes to dying. You know those Christmas ornaments you thought would make such a difference to your holiday celebration? Total nonsense when your progeny opens the unmarked box and finds them rolling around in strands of curly garland and sticky candles shaped like snowmen. And those books that promised to make you smarter, happier, healthier, and more successful? Fodder for the fire, my friends.

So I've been trying to wrap my brain around the idea of stuff and where it fits in my happiness plan. All these years I've thought that I want stuff, so I need a job to buy stuff, preferably a good one that pays a lot so I can buy good stuff. If I buy good stuff, I will be happier. Or so I thought until this week. Now that I see how useless stuff can be once you're gone from this world and living in a better place where hot chocolate flows freely and every day feels like Christmas because Jesus is right there, sitting in the booth next to you, I wonder if my priorities are out of whack.

I borrowed Anne Morrow Lindburgh's book Gift from the Sea and read a bit about how this kind of shell I took a picture of, (I forget what it's called--argonaut?), once housed a small sea creature. When it was no longer suitable, he (or she, or it?) simply vacated the home and found another, taking nothing with him. I can picture this, especially when I imagine a female critter. She would leave at night so no one would see her as she fled, naked and nervous, through the dark alleys of the deep sea. She'd see the "for rent" sign on a white shell that had only one room, but this great pointy thing at the top that she could hang a metal star from, or a potted plant. So she signs the lease and moves in the next day. Then she commences to fill up the place with all sorts of knickknacks. There's the bit of red paper she found on the beach and used for a tablecloth, the handful of sand she brought back from a trip to Mexico, the t-shirt she bought at the Krusty Krab restaurant, and a self-help book entitled Going with the Flow When You're Swimming Against the Tide. She continues to acquire more and more things, all the while thinking that the more stuff she has, the more complete her life will feel to her. Then one day she discovers that her shell feels a little tight around the waist. She wonders if she's gained weight. But after spending an entire day moping around and feeling fat, she'll conclude that the shell has somehow shrunk. And then she'll move to a bigger place.

So what does this mean? It means that I'm in the mood to get rid of everything that does not represent my life as it is right now, or the life that I would like to have. I want to get rid of all the things that no longer serve a purpose in my house. All the good intention purchases. All the thrift store finds that sit in my cupboards unused year after year. The clothes that no longer fit. The clothes that never fit in the first place. The decorations I want to throw in the fireplace because I'm so sick of hauling them out every year. The leftovers in the freezer that no one, not even the cat, will eat. I'm talking about a whole-house purge here, and a ruthless one. Because one day I will die, and I from what I hear, you can't take a suitcase or even a carry-on with you on the journey.