It happens little by little. That cool kitchen gadget whose sole job is to remove the leaves from an individual strawberry, that ball of rubber bands that will come in handy someday, that cleaning product to refresh the dashboard of your car and next thing you know, your junk drawer and garage are overflowing with things that you have no idea why you bought in the first place and you’re spending a weekend organizing it all on the off chance that you’ll find use for them one day.
I am in the process of the largest edit of my life. By the time I am done decumulating, I will own the things that can fit in a backpack, a carryon suitcase, and a medium-sized moving box. That last container is for the sentimental things that I can’t bear to throw away; it will live in my brother’s attic for years to come. The rest will go with me on my travels.
For me, this process has been both clarifying and freeing albeit a little difficult. I quickly discovered that the less I have, the less I have to manage. I quickly learned which objects hold such meaning to me that I will want to hold them again. There’s my childhood teddy bear, those sunglasses mom bought when she lived with me, my dead cat’s collar, that angry letter from a close friend, my first grade report card noting that I frequently bothered the other kids, the serving tongs grandma used to serve her amazing cabbage rolls and so on. Each object is a physical reminder of a story I hold dear. Each matters. Each stays.
But on an ongoing basis, the constraint of a backpack and a carryon clarifies the utility of each item I carry into this next phase of life. Is this item worth its weight? Do I really need three pairs of shoes? How much cold weather gear do I really need? Can I just buy that consumable when I get to where I am going?
And it has brought me great joy to distribute my still-useful things to people who I know will use and appreciate them. Afterall, that’s what things are for: for their usefulness. I know that my friend who loves to cook will get good use out of my knife set. I know that my friend who loves music IS getting good use out of my old speakers. I know that my plant-obsessed friend will take good care of that desert rose that I have owned for 20 years; I know that she will keep that one difficult fern alive. I know that the things I can’t carry into this next phase of life will bring joy to others and that brings joy to me.
On the other hand, I have one possession that I am having difficulty letting go. It is a thing that has brought me happy memories and physical comfort. I have used it most days over the last couple years and it feels a bit of a status symbol. It’s my cool little Tacoma. Rationally, I know that it doesn’t make sense to store it. I’ve been tempted, but that would be costly and vehicles don’t do well sitting for long periods. It feels like I am giving up a part of me and of my own history to sell it, but it has to go.
I guess it’s similar to how I feel about that box of sentimentals in my brother’s attic: some objects do matter both in a practical and emotional sense. Each can be useful or hold a special memory, but each also demands headspace. For me, the secret to managing that balance is taking some time here and there to think about my things–which are bringing joy, which are just taking up headspace and causing anxiety.
So, in praise of minimalism, I note that on our journey, things do matter and that the best approach for me is to balance each object’s usefulness with its carrying cost. For me for now, I am opting for fewer things and a freer, more mobile life.
Spencer, sin fronteras 