Clutter Me Not

Have you ever thought to notice that objects, articles of clothing, bibelots, things remain long after the owner, wearer, user is gone? It may seem a little dark to dwell on the thought, but to me it seems curious. We often subscribe feelings, memories and reminiscences to these things. Such as “this was my mother’s ring,” this belonged to my father, grandmother, etc. We feel a connection to these objects, almost as if they are a part of the person. Imbued with their spirit somehow. They aren’t, of course. I am certainly guilty of sentimental attachments of this kind.

There is a chair in my home that I pass every single day. This chair was in my grandmother’s house, in my mother’s childhood home. When I see it, I think of them, of their lives so many decades ago. I can “see” it in my mind’s eye. Somehow it is comforting. The chair is not my grandmother or my mother, yet it gives me comfort.

The double-edged sword of this anthropomorphism is twofold. First, the ascribing of such characteristics makes a loss of any these objects a source of grief. Secondly, clutter. Maybe this is just me. But I believe I have every piece of construction paper that my children put a crayon to. I have every letter, card and note my mother ever sent me. I love seeing her handwriting. I love remembering my children’s attempts at drawing. You see the problem here. How to cull?

I am not a hoarder but how to live a freer life? I love the idea of fewer possessions, of not being weighed down with things. So, I’m a work in progress. Wish me luck. But don’t be looking at that chair.