“Get rid of it!”
That was the motto of my friend’s crotchety Texan grandmother, whenever we’d gossip about a classmate or complain about a meal.
It wasn’t clear if she was talking about getting rid of the sentiment or the subject of our distress, but her words ring in my ears during times like these:
Times when I'm in the middle of a great purge.
I don't love the word "purge" any more than you do but it does evoke the abrupt, upsetting, and even violent nature of a big cleanup, so I'll use it sparingly today.
I'm doing a months-long Life Edit, which has so far included deleting 10,000 photos off my phone, eliminating most animal products from my diet, clearing space in my schedule, and over-using the word "edit."
Now's the part where I let a lot of stuff go. I can easily see how people (me) accumulate so much stuff over time, even those of us (me) who move about once a year.
It's emotional to purge. It takes effort. "Does this spark joy?" is not such a simple question.
Some of my most treasured items spark sadness, and that makes them valuable to me.
"Get rid of it!" I keep saying in the grandma's southern accent in my head, as I form messy piles of my possessions: cards with scribbled names I don't recognize, a vintage dress I bought on a rainy afternoon in France, my father's library card, books I know I'm not going to read.
The value we place on our things is arbitrary, personal, and subjective, which is another reason why it's so hard to release them into the unknown.
This silver spoon from a trip to Bulgaria might mean nothing to the person who buys it for a dollar at the thift store or finds it on the sidewalk, but it meant so much to me. Does that mean I should keep it? Only because I'm not sure it will be properly appreciated in other hands?
It's tough. Some people may boast about their minimalist tendencies, their unattachment to material goods, but nobody has fully transcended evolution:
Women in particular (if I may call in the binary for one moment) have a looooong ancestral history of being attached to home and material objects as a means of feeling safe.
And all humans instinctively protect possessions over their own safety. If we trip and fall while carrying an object, we will hold tight on to the object rather than release it so that we can protect our own bodies with our arms. Possessions arouse a nurturing impulse in us; we are wired to love our things.
My mom tells a story about how I'd wake up smiling when I was a baby, gazing around at my beloved stuffed animals and beaming at each one.
I still wake up smiling, because I surround myself with the things I care about:
But I can't keep everything always. There are many momentos I once loved that no longer evoke as much feeling as they once did, or they keep me tethered to something that isn't me anymore (or isn't my size).
I'm making some major life decisions lately, and I wonder if cluttering my view with fossils from my own ancient history will muddle my attachments and confuse my values, the way that clinging to the past can muddle the values of nations.
Will I want it later?, I wonder. I mull over what my brilliant friend Madeleine said:
You can trust yourself about what isn't serving you at this moment in time. Maybe you will want it later, the way people can be ready for a past relationship years later, or realize they might be better-suited now to a city where they used to live. People change, of course. But maybe you wouldn't have made that change if you weren't free enough or light enough from having done what you needed to do in this moment: Let it go.
And in the event that I'll want the discarded possession later, I can get a more suitable version for this Era of Mari.
In any case, it's good to let things go.
The people I admire most are thoroughgoing, people who put their head down and work hard and attentively to perfect their skill. And the ones I admire extra most are the ones whose chosen skill is living. They live lusciously with aplomb and gusto because they have honed the craft of sculpting their own existence.
This manifests in different ways, but almost all of the people whose skill is living are people whose homes tell a story. They have knick-knacks and tchotchkes from travels and tribulations and triumphs, and they’ll invite you over for their famous fabulous homemade beverage to tell you about them.
I want to be this. I want to be someone in a home filled with stories.
Then again, the people I admire most are people who don’t hang on for too long. They continually renovate the rooms in their heart, rearrange as need be, and place memories in closed cabinets when the time comes.
They’re people who know when a season is over, and transition accordingly.
After loss, they look for what is found.
We’ve all been in the company of someone who’s ruminating over a past relationship long after the initial analysis, and it’s grating to co-obsess over something that can’t be changed. But even more tiring and annoying is actually being the person who can’t let something go: to constantly carry baggage that should have been left for someone else a while back.
I used to decorate my home with a ton of momentos because I wanted to tell a story, but what I realized about those people I most admire is that they only tell stories that keep them growing, expanding, evolving, and loving...not resenting, unnecessarily yearning, or wishing they were somewhere or someone else.
I've carried too many things that reflect an imaginary version of myself, or a version of myself that I romanticize but don't aspire to be. During this purge, I've had to get so honest about what matters to me right now...and hope that the rest will be cared for anew.
I've realized that to live well is to let go well, and for me it all starts with a bag of shirts.