Stuff

Like most people I know (particularly of my age group) the bane of my existence is all the stuff we've accumulated over the years. In spite of several moves, numerous adventures with storage spaces (DON'T EVER STORE ANYTHING IN A STORAGE SPACE!!! It costs more than the stuff warrants. Trust me) and far too much time donating boxes of books to libraries, friends, and organizations (read: anyone who will take them) we still have far more material objects than anyone should ever have. We acquire things, then find it hard to give them up.

We have downsized substantially, and even have an auxiliary house in California to absorb some of the overflow (that's how we emptied our storage space some years back) but we still register pretty high on the stuff-o-meter. Sigh.

However, we had some folks in recently for a small party, and took them on a tour of the house. This may just be an Old Town thing, but some people like to see what houses here look like on the inside. I was once told that residents will sometimes leave lights on and windows undraped so that passers-by can get a glimpse of some of the more beautiful classic rooms...(I am not describing our house here, mind you.) In any case, when we do this, most people will proffer the standard comment on the order of "You have a lovely home.." and we smile and say 'thank you' and that's it.

This time, however, after that obligatory exchange, one person said something that I am still thinking about: that every room had something interesting in it, something quirky or different or unusual in some way. It might be an ark or a map or a wooden bowl or a picture or a stuffed animal--but there was something in every room that provoked a question or a thought or a response. Hmmm.

I started walking through and looking, and found that our house shows its (our) personality in more ways than I thought. There is something uniquely ours in every space here, and almost all of them have stories to tell. Moreover, I think most other people have the same 'clutter'-dynamic going on. Sure, we all have too much stuff, but it's all part of us, part of our own story: the books we read, the souvenirs we bring home, the pieces of our past that we choose to display. Our house is the sum of us, and I'm not altogether sure that we wouldn't be the poorer for cheerfully discarding books and bowls and toys and tchotchkes, cut glass and photos and prints and china in pursuit of simplification.

I'd rather have a house that speaks our name.