Too much stuff.

Oh internet, you’ll always be my first home…

I’ve been MIA the last two weeks. My wife and I found a house and have been doing what needs to be done to acquire said house. Mostly signing a forest sized quantity of paper with blood from a main artery.  Built in 1951, it’s a brick cape cod with 3 bedrooms, 1 bath, a detached 2 car garage, and room for a large garden. We love it! We move in (hopefully) today. The process has been relatively painless.

When moving to a new home there is the inevitable packing (and unpacking). I find this process to be excruciating; an experience somewhere between water boarding and that crazy torture droid in the original Star Wars. It’s not due to the heavy boxes or that we live on the third story of a condo building. It’s because while packing, I am reminded of the excessive amount of useless shit stuff I have.

This is NOT us… yet…

My wife and I differ in our philosophy of “stuff.” She attaches sentimental or practical future value to things. Bag of sticks=potential crafty project. Battered up non-functional ugly lamp from mom=keepsake. Tin of bottletops & plastic pill bottles=something weird. I do not hold any of this against her; I can intellectually understand her reasoning and feelings behind her acquisitions. They give her comfort in a cold and unpredictable world. For me it’s like fingernails on a chalk board.

While packing, I took note of MY stuff that will go in the “give away/sell/burn” pile. Some are clothes. Some are electronics. Some are pictures. But all have outlasted their usefulness and need to go. Immediately.

Similar to this.

About 3 years ago I traveled to Washington D.C. for a refugee resettlement conference. Heather and I have been active CouchSurfers since 2008 so I found an awesome RPCV willing to let me crash his pad while I was in town. When I arrived at his condo, this is what I saw: 2 beds, 1 table, 1 small bookshelf, 2 chairs, 2 paintings. That’s it.

It was monastic. Walking across his threshold was like walking into a sacred space. I could feel my being stretch out to embrace the unfilled space.

Get rid of all the stuff!

I later learned that his kitchen and closet were much the same way. Minimalistic. Functional. Open. There is a moment in Braveheart where Mel Gibson cries out “Freedom!” I want that feeling in my own home. I want to whittle down all my stuff to a minimum. 1 or 2 pieces of art. A small bookshelf for a couple of keepsakes and a rotating collection of books. Bed. Desk. Done. Same thing for the kitchen, garage, and garden. I want the used and functional. When something stops being functional or ceases being used, I’ll get rid of it.

Which is why packing is painful. It puts all the stupid/kitchy/tacky/useless stuff right up into my grill, makes me protect it, carry it, transport it, and them unpack it to sit on a shelf to gather dust. I know it’s not all cut and dry. The argument is, “You know, you may need X someday, so you might as well have it.”

Shut your word hole right there.

If he would just get rid of the rock, he’d be ok…

I refuse to be held captive by a potential future of potential needs. A disaster preparedness kit is one thing. That is some wise boy-scout voodoo that makes sense. But if I need a power saw for a project, I can either rent one or find one for free on Craigslist. When I’m done with it, away it will go to find a new and useful home. No need for it to take up space in my garage.

Keepsakes are another issue. Photo albums of “important” photos (not the pic of a blurry drunken Uncle Ralph) are needed for family record keeping. Great grandpa’s medal of honor from the civil war is a piece of history. The plastic cartoon moose aunt Mable gave as a Christmas present in 1983 is crap. I am constantly refining the difference.

Best. Gift. Ever.

Gifts are a main source of life sucking crap. We give people things because we (hopefully) like them. It’s well intended. However, I have come to the point where I don’t need any more stuff. If you like me, get me a nice bottle of scotch or bake me some cookies. If you really like me, make a donation in my name to a non-profit that helps people or protects the environment. Just don’t give me a motion activated singing fish. I will hit you with it.

I’ve experienced too many people who are homeless and have no access to food. I’ve lived in places with no toilets or running water. The amount of money I’ve wasted on stupid toys, comic books, dolls action figures, CDs, DVDs, electric potato peelers, glow in the dark foot cozies, and individual french fry crispers could probably have put me through grad school. I’m done being the ignorant, selfish, materialistic American. For a long time, I thought happiness came by having more stuff than the other guy. I was wrong. My happiness comes from my relationships, friendships and family.

I need to stop filling my life with stuff. I need to start filling life with me.

Advertisements

About Justin Almeida

Coffee roaster, beer brewer, spirit distiller, capsaicin addict, active activist, peaceful warrior.
This entry was posted in Life and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

7 Responses to Too much stuff.

  1. I’m so on board with this post. I live with potential hoarders, but I think I’m getting them trained. I had a moment a few years ago when I realized I’d been moving a rug my mother had given me years ago, across international borders. It was ugly and I shoved it in a closet no matter where I moved. I took a picture of it and donated it to Goodwill. I value open space, freedom to move and less stuff to clean (translation, more time to do the things that I actually like to do). We’re trained to be consumers in this country and it takes a lot to unlearn that mentality.

  2. Nevada Mom says:

    Sorry about the wifes perchant for boxes of “stuff”, I can attest that it is genetic!

  3. Dear Justin, I love your post! Just had a bit of a mental wander through the house and ticked off a heap of stuff I’ve moved and moved again but never use. You’ve given me food for thought. Thanks mate!

  4. Pingback: Learning how to share all over again… | What's My Age Again?

  5. Pingback: What Christmas is (supposedly) about… | What's My Age Again?

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s