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I was a clever gatherer of things.
Mostly paper. In neat piles.
Inside of drawers. Resting innocuously on shelves. Tucked into boxes that
lurked in the shadowy recesses of my garage.
Except for occasional
accusations of hoarding, I imagined only I could see them.
In those moments, I’d
immediately acquiesce, decommissioning just enough stuff to
deal with the prevailing winds of spousal dissatisfaction.
After all, did I really need
that college term paper on Igneous rock? That large red C-minus at the top
couldn’t possibly make it a possession to be savored.
Or Hubert Humphrey’s letter
responding to my teenage despair upon his loss in the 1968 Presidential race?
Or, for that matter, every birthday card ever sent to me since the age of 16?
Apparently, I did.
I believed those items had
value. At a moment’s notice, they could propel me on a journey back in time to
less complicated days. Or to more complicated days, when a young love went
wrong, leaving me to suffer through the exquisite pain of youthful indulgence.
My so-called hoarding was not the type of nostalgia that comes dangerously close to living in the past. It was a naughty little habit involving a bit of harmless Throwback Thursdays.
The Cure-All for All of Us Gatherers
But when my partner of 35 years
died, bequeathing me with his own Smithsonian-like cache of memorabilia, the
issue of hoarding took on a depth and proportion I’d never have imagined.
In the years before he passed,
I’d try to provoke a massive, joint Spring clean-up. An I’ll do mine if
you do yours! activity.
But he couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. Or
was overwhelmed by the thought of tossing a piece of his past onto the garbage
heap of history.
And, frankly, so was I.
Lacking the requisite moral high
ground to judge him too harshly for this particular idiosyncrasy, I’d back
away.
Until his death made it
incumbent upon me to sift through endless cartons of paper, uncoil dozens of
drawings, page through high school yearbooks in a constant search for what
might be noteworthy. Relevant. Must-haves to add to my own
collection of memories.
Wondering, sometimes aloud and
with utter frustration, what he’d want me to keep. What he might want to live
on after him. Something that shed light or learning on his life. Or mine. Or
our life together.
I was judge and jury at a time
when grief and healing should have been my only occupation. And that’s how
the cure for gathering surfaced.
In the end, the best reason to
travel through life with as few things as possible is that we aren’t traveling
through that life alone. In good faith, I could not place the burden of
litigating my own museum of stuff onto anyone else. Certainly not someone I
loved.
That was my responsibility.
That Unquantifiable Thing that Keeps Us Stuck
It’s impossible to put a
convincing finger on why it’s difficult to part with vestiges of our past.
Perhaps we need proof of our own
experience. A tombstone reminder that something happened to us on planet Earth
on such and such a date. Beyond a shadow of a doubt. Without interpretation or
misrepresentation by the faulty fingerprints of our recollection.
Or perhaps it’s just vanity,
laziness, or a codification only we can understand. Even if we can’t articulate
why.
Latter-Day Definitions of Downsizing
My new spouse and I recently
moved to a new house.
We did, admittedly, take a few
things in violation of our Golden Rule of Packing: Unused for two
years? Donate it. Or trash it. No exceptions.
But there are always exceptions.
Some of them, treasured exceptions.
One simply cannot manage through
a well-lived life with only one KitchenAid Artisan 5 qt. Stand Mixer in Blood
Orange. (It was a limited edition color!)
Or find culinary expediency with
just one 4-quart Instant Pot. (Spontaneous Instant Pot cook-offs can’t be known
in advance.)
Nor could one destroy hard
drives from computers with 20th Century expiration dates. (One day I’ll need
that memo I sent to so and so.)
Or, dare I ask this aloud?
Could one seriously consider
tossing out a piece of paper, ripped from a grade school notebook, containing
Jayne Mansfield’s unintelligible autograph?
I think not.
In the
end, downsizing is a necessity for simpler life, but we can’t do it blindly.
The important memories may just remind us of the person we used to be and what
prompted us to embrace our new, more authentic identity. And those reminders
are important to have around – at least some of the time.
Let’s Have a Conversation:
What are your downsizing rules? Have you had to clean up someone’s stuff after their death? How did you feel and how did you manage? Please share your experience with our community.
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