TOO MUCH STUFF!

I went to the grocery story today, and while in line to check out, I glanced at the items displayed along each side of the narrow area through which I was being funneled. What, I found myself wondering, would someone transported from the 19th century (or early 20th century, for that matter) make of all this stuff?  Even someone wildly wealthy would not have been able to imagine such an array of, well, crap on offer.  There were, among other things, candy bars and magazines, plastic toys and other gee-gaws. 

 

I'm guessing that, once scooped up and paid for, most of it (apart from the candy bars) would soon be in the landfill. 

 

What is it with Americans and our stuff?

 

I have read that visitors and immigrants from less wealthy nations are 

overwhelmed by the bewildering choices in our stores.  Well, of course they are.  Do we really need 15 brands of dish soap or 8 different kinds of toilet paper?  Do we need all the things that come encased in hard plastic? Do we need an entire aisle of water in plastic bottles? Sure, we might keep a few bottles around for emergencies, but what's wrong with tap water for daily use?  (If you don't like your tap water, you can buy a filter for your faucet - yes that involves bringing another item into the house, but if it replaces dozens of plastic bottles of water, I think it’s a fair trade.)

 

And, while I'm on the subject of stuff, let me hasten to confess that there is too much of it in my house. I want to live in 800 square feet. The only stuff I want is a desk, a computer, some books, some paper and pens, some art for the walls, and a few plants.  (OK, sure, I need some clothes and kitchen utensils and some basic supplies - you know, olive oil, shampoo, and chocolate, but you get the idea.) 

 

What is all the rest of this stuff?  

 

I have been trying to go through drawers and cupboards.  How many paper clips can two people use? Or nails?  We have so many nails and screws.  And don't get me started on the 6 or 8 screwdrivers and multiple hammers. How about coats? -- If my husband is reading this, yes, I'm looking at you.

 

Sometimes I buy things and wonder a month later what I was thinking.  Maybe these impulsive purchases are what lie behind the many yard sales I drive past every sunny weekend.  These events are where people pass off their stuff to other people, who later give it all to Goodwill, where the cycle begins again. 

 

And how about storage units?  Is this solely an American thing? Do people in other countries have so much stuff that they have rent space to hold the overflow? 

 

Apart from issues of waste and disposal, I find an overabundance of stuff to be overwhelming and anxiety-inducing.  I can't write when my desk is covered with too much stuff. (I clean it off every month or so, and still it silts back over.) And in stores with a jumble of stuff, e.g., Goodwill and thrift shops, I can't see anything. 

I don't know about you, but every time I cart another load of stuff out of my house, I feel a bit lighter, a bit more relaxed, a bit more able to enjoy my life. 

 

As Roz Chast writes in Can’t We Talk About Something More Pleasant?, her wonderful memoir of her parents’ last years, once you have gone through and sorted your parents’ stuff, you start to look at your own stuff “a little more postmortemistically.” 

 

That's exactly the view I have been taking lately. I hope I have a number of good years left, but I don't want to leave a mess behind for my kids to go through, and I don’t want to spend whatever time I have left taking care of unnecessary stuff.

 

So why not start the postmortemistical cleanup now?

 

 

OF CHERRY BLOSSOMS AND POETRY

 

A few days ago, while gazing with pleasure at our weeping cherry tree, I found myself quietly reciting this poem by A.E. Housman:

 

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now

Is hung with bloom along the bough,

And stands about the woodland ride

Wearing white for Eastertide.

 

Now, of my threescore years and ten,

Twenty will not come again,

And take from seventy springs a score,

It only leaves me fifty more.

 

And since to look at things in bloom

Fifty springs are little room,

About the woodlands I will go

To see the cherry hung with snow.

 

I must have been around twenty myself when I first encountered these lines, an age at which 50 years seemed an eternity, and I could no more imagine myself at 70 than I could imagine myself flying to the moon. Yet now, I find, to my astonishment, that I have not only reached 70, but have, in fact, outlived my threescore years and ten. 

 

And how is it that I remember Housman’s poem all these years later?  Well, in my youth, I would read favorites over and over again. I wasn’t trying to memorize them, but my brain was young and impressionable, and much of the poetry that I read decades ago remains fresh in my mind, even as I struggle to remember the plot of a book that I read last month. 

 

Today, as I sit pondering Housman’s poem and the years that have passed since I accidently learned it off by heart, I am happy to report that I am still enjoying things in bloom. And although I now spend hours, rather than whole days at a time, tending to my garden, we are old friends, this patch of ground and I, and it reliably delights me with daffodils, forget-me-nots, rhodies, lilacs, irises, roses, and much more each year. 

 

And so, with gratitude for whatever years I am given, I shall, with Housman, take the time to enjoy those blossoms that present themselves for my enchantment for as long as I am able.  

 

May we all do the same, whatever our age.