 |
I recently moved my office, so I had to go through my files and papers and decide what could go to the trash bin or the shredder. Unlike many people, I enjoy this process. Though not a minimalist, I don't like clutter and am always pleased when I can get rid of things.
The phrase "a place for everything and everything in its place" has real meaning to me.
Admittedly, throwing away insurance company memos and outdated forms doesn't cause much emotional conflict. I am not always so cavalier, however, when it comes to tossing out other items:
- Clothes that don't really look that good on me, or that I no longer like.
- Books that I will never read or have no desire to leaf through.
- Letters that seemed important at the time I received them, but are now just taking up space.
- Tiny screws, bolts and unidentifiable widgets that belong to appliances and shelving units and may or may not be important.
- Items of sentimental value that now fail to invoke sentiment.
What to do with all of this stuff? There are community organizations that will take the clothes and furniture I no longer want or need. I give my extra books (once I am sure I can part with them) to the inmates at Angola State Prison. Other items aren't so easy, though.
When my mother died, I faced the temptation of loading a truck with all manner of things: the desk and bed my father built for me, the books of my childhood, scrapbooks my mother kept of my school achievements, my father's World War II memorabilia. The grim, judgmental neighbor who was the executor of my mother's estate followed me from room to room and peered over my shoulder as I poked around in dresser drawers and closets filled with so many reminders of a childhood blurred by memory but suddenly made real by tangible objects.
I kept the remains of my mother's crystal, a couple of pieces of cheap china, two pieces of costume jewelry, a necklace I wore as a child, my father's war papers and medals, and a box of photos and letters. I bought a cabinet for the crystal, slipped the jewelry into my jewelry pouch, and left the rest of the items in the garage.
Eventually, I read the letters, mounted some of the photos in albums, and stuffed everything else back into boxes. Months later, when we cleaned out the garage, I was again faced with piles of storybooks, first grade projects, worn-out toys, and moldy objects that defied any category. This time, I sorted without mercy, and most of the contents of the boxes were relegated to the trash pile.
I can't say I was comfortable with what I did, but we have a small house with very limited storage so harsh decisions have to be made about what stays and what goes. But tossing out much of the evidence of my mother's material existence and my own childhood gave me pause for another reason: I began to consider the fate of my own possessions.
When I am gone, what will become of my books? My art? My fountain pens? My own crystal? What will be the fate of my collections of tiny cloisonné animals and glass vases? Who will wear my antique jewelry?
These questions lead to a more difficult one. Do my possessions matter? Louise Kaplan, in her splendid book, Oneness and Separateness, makes the argument that our treasured possessions are treasured because they are metaphors for home, or, put another way, they are transitional objects for adults. Like most reasonably sensitive people, I often think about the hundreds of thousands of humans who have no possessions, nothing to represent home, no home to be represented. Amidst this kind of desolation, my paperweights and candleholders become meaningless to the point of absurdity.
And yet it bothers me to imagine a garbage truck pulling up to take them away or to visualize their gathering dust in some cluttered shop that caters to garage sale devotees. It isn't so much that I bought them and own them, but that they have each called to me emotionally, either as gifts from loved ones, or as objects of aesthetic or whimsical pleasure. They are indeed metaphors for home.
We recently went through preparations for the arrival of both Tropical Storm Isadore and Hurricane Lili. We live in a flood-free zone, but there is always the possibility that hurricane-force winds or tornadoes will come, so we must take precautions. But taking precautions means having plenty of water and battery-powered light on hand, and removing pots, bird feeders and trellises from the yard. There is no way to protect the items in our house if the roof caves in or the walls are tossed to the ground. A hurricane is always a reminder of the fragility of the material world.
After such a storm, survivors weep over their lost possessions and resolve to rebuild. I have never had to go through this terrible process, but I am painfully aware that my own possessions can be lost, broken or stolen from me at any time. And when I am gone, each of them will become just another displaced thing in search of a metaphor.
© 2002, All Rights Reserved
Bio:
Diane E. Dees is a regular contributor to Moondance Columns. She is a psychotherapist and writer in south Louisiana. Her essays and short stories have appeared or are forthcoming in several publications, including: The Raven Chronicles, Thema, Southern Ocean Review, The Melic Review, The Dead Mule and The Louisiana Review. Diane and her husband are the webmasters of www.princesscafe.com, a virtual rock and roll restaurant.
Diane can be reached at: deestob@aol.com
|
