It was the dinner party a few weeks back that got me thinking – not the gathering itself, but the excess everywhere I looked as we wound our way along the wooded road to the house.
It struck me and stayed with me. I couldn’t get it out of my head. It seemed to nudge me in a direction I didn’t know I was ready for.
Shedding. Shedding anything I can think of. Shedding in order to lighten, to focus, to better function.
We had driven through a lush and luxurious neighborhood in which each residence grew more grandiose than what preceded it. There were iron gates and concrete lions keeping watch, four car garages visible at the end of wide driveways, pillared mansions giving way to faux Tuscan villas and turreted chateaux.
Big, bigger, biggest.
The show of it all.
These are, to me, castles of curiosity, tributes to American object worship, warehouses of space to flaunt, stuff to store, and for many this is – or used to be – the dream. It is the big (bigger-biggest) home of your heart’s desire, the big car (or two or three) in the driveway, the big bling on your fingers (or your wife’s), and a lifestyle of keeping up with the Joneses (and Kardashians) which seems to know no limits. And this seems particularly true in certain cities and regions.
This isn’t about tough economic times (for many of us); it is about these elaborate edifices and the need to erect them as a statement of success, as icons of identity, as if no amount of “stuff” is ever enough.
Something somewhere, somewhere deeper, must have gone missing.
Admittedly, I compare them to my New England origins and European neighborhoods where I have lived, to more discreet ways of expressing personal style (and values), and I’m staggered by our ongoing propensity for objects over people, as we build walls around our possessions and try to find some measure of safety within, as we attempt to hold back the tides that threaten any life with life – and the troubles we simply can’t foresee.
* * *
The dinner party was small, the food was simple, the conversation was interesting, and my date was charming.
The house itself was relatively modest for the area – in no particular style – and it appeared to be filled with treasures accumulated during the couple’s travels. One corner of the living room was scattered with toys and dolls from a grandchild’s last visit.
It was a home that doesn’t dwarf its surroundings, a home that welcomes family and friends. It is not in need of “shedding,” but nor is it empty of a feeling that it is inhabited.
* * *
About 25 years ago my mother began a process of shedding. She lived in a normal house by area standards – about a century old, with 9′ ceilings I’ve since come to appreciate, and with three upstairs bedrooms and a single small bathroom.
Eventually, she converted attic storage into two more bedrooms which she rented in her later years, for both company and extra income.
It was a nice enough house, but square footage wasn’t relevant.
A beautiful antique with an interesting provenance?
That was another matter. My mother was an avid collector, and over the years she acquired some lovely objects, often purchased on “time” before such a thing was common.
If she fell in love with an 18th century chair she might pay $5/week until she owned it, and it became part of the household. Value derived from usefulness as well as beauty, and she particularly adored collecting chairs – a passion I admit to sharing.
Yet she reached a stage at midlife when she wanted less of everything. She was shedding, though I didn’t understand it at the time. It was then that she insisted I take a small dresser and blanket chest from my childhood bedroom, a teacup or vase from my grandmother, and other odds and ends or they would be given away or sold off.
I took them.
Unknowingly, I became the caretaker. It’s a pleasure to be the caretaker of beautiful objects, of the sentiments and memories they hold. This is especially true when we are old enough to appreciate them and young enough to be building memories of our own.l
Young enough so we don’t feel the burden of material things.
* * *
Divorce cleaves the years of living and loving and raising children into halves: There is the time of “before” (and our illusions of the future); there is the time of “after” (and reinvention in order to survive).
My time of reinvention has been long, stumbling, and murky. My time of reinvention has come and gone, come again and shifted aside, and continues to reappear – like it or not – every few years. I never anticipated this. at best.
The physical, emotional, and financial costs.
With reinvention of any sort comes a desire to cast off anything that hurts, which must be balanced – when there are children – with memories that rightfully belong to them.
Suddenly, my tiny rooms feel more disorganized and chaotic than ever, jammed with stuff rather than people, and while I’ve been at this process of attempting to shed for two years, for three years, for so much longer – it grows more pressing.
The urgency to shed.
The knowledge that I nevertheless must be some sort of “keeper” for the legacy that belongs to my sons. Knowing how to divest much less what to keep for them, and yes myself, remains a challenge. Shedding is emotional. Shedding is complicated. Shedding for some, I’m certain, is easier than this.
I am younger than my mother when she began this process I come to understand: the clarity of the organized space, the pleasure in photographs and my children’s drawings, selected objects from my family’s past, and relief in lightening the load enough – at last – to make room to maneuver, room for a future I may not have imagined.
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I hear you on the symbols of access. Once upon a time, I too dreamt of the big house and fancy cars. Now, I just can’t wait to de-clutter, remove the “white noise” in my own home so it’ll be easier for us to move and travel, experiencing a brand new culture along the way.
Because of our new life goals (and the lack of storage space in our new home), we recently started shedding ourselves. We also started asking ourselves: Why are we trying to find room to fit our former lives into the space of our current one? Especially when there isn’t enough room, we had to make a choice. And so I found myself getting rid of old albums (relics of a past life with a former husband) and travel souvenirs to make space for new adventures. It’s unbelievable how “light” I felt, literally & figuratively, after donating/selling those items that followed me everywhere, going from storage space to storage space.
White noise. Perfect term for it, Justine.
Wolfie, this is so poignant and beautifully written. I, too, am finding that I’d rather shed than collect as I get older. I don’t crave things so much as I crave experiences–time and places to go with those I love. Who gives a shit about a bracelet or an antique ottoman? I’m with you.
Yes, experiences with those we love. I’m so with you on that score, Kitch.
As the daughter of near ‘hoarders’ who have had to learn to let go when they moved to a smaller home in retirement, I am prone to hold on a little too long to the memories.
I agree with your views on too many people with too many things.
I have always preferred a small cozy abode to the large, empty cold mansions.
I too agree with Kitch, it is more and more about the time with others than the things we buy with them.
My parents used to insist on bringing us home silly t-shirts or cups from every trip. I am sure it was their way of including us on the trips. Little do they know it was the time with them cuddling and listening to the stories of what they did and saw that was our souvenir.
Your description of the house sounds very cozy.
Ah, yes, NAS – those ‘mementos’ that others give us. So hard to get rid of them. Like Justine, I could do with more storage (one of the typical small house challenges). On the other hand, I’m forced to shed what isn’t vital – a slow process, but a good one.
I could shed more, though we recently got rid of a lot, some of which we find we will need again. But, my mom holds objects like they contain memories or people. Her house is full. And it scares me. When I get rid of something, she sighs, eyebrows raised in a question – won’t you want that? I want the memories, but NOT the objects that have no use in my life.
There is a freedom in less. An ease.
There is freedom in less, Kate. I agree. But I understand your Mom’s point of view, too. As we get older, it’s often the case that our lives are populated with fewer people, and we feel our own mortality more and more. In a strange way, we see (and hear) the time passing in the stories of those objects, and like to think that they will hold meaning (and pass on their stories) to our children and their children. All the more reason to acquire less in our 20s and 30s and 40s, perhaps? And then learn to edit sooner?
ah – another lovely post – and most thought-provoking.
we have moved countries (england to USA) and from the Other Coast to the east coast and from uptown to downtown nyc and each time have shed objects and memories and stuff-we-no-longer-needed to the four winds (usually housing works during the uptown to downtown move)
one mistake we won’t make again. after packing up to leave england we were still inside a relationship. however that didn’t survive the packing/waiting for immigration process (Another Story) and so during the “divorce” (italics because not recognized at the joining and so not sanctioned as a separation in those days) we allowed some of our friends to come over and take what they needed to divest as much as possible.
then immigration (ours) took a lot longer and we endured a week with our old joint household stuff at a friend’s house – AGONY.
never again.
when we shed – we donate. safer 😉
thanks again for walking us through this illness. you’ve been invaluable.
_tg x
@tg -Shedding sooner rather than later does have its advantages… I suspect you have many stories still to tell us, and I look forward to hearing them for a very long time to come. 🙂
Downsize for freedom. Backpack to get a sense of reality. But not as easy as it sounds. Your post yesterday re Laughter gets me running around to find my favorite copies from Little Blue Books publisher. We’re drowning under books – have sold some on Amazon, donated a few boxes, and still way too many. We try to get our kids to take things, while trying to find suitable homes for other stuff. The “stuff” serves as a memory cue and a connection to history. Now I take pictures of objects and then move them out. A picture is no storage problem. Want to know the history of Indian clubs? I have a collection of most all types deep in the attic (some from family and others from when an old gym was closing, decades ago). I have feathers that were worn by Mrs William McKinley when she was First Lady in the White House (courtesy of her dress maker’s grandchildren, who didn’t want to save them any longer – I should have learned from that.). Don’t forget part of the nest of a trap door spider – dug out of the dirt with operational trap door. Fran’s relatives go way back and what do we do with O.W. Holmes silver tea pot and baby chair, or HIS father’s silk underwear? Incidentally, cash value of most genuine antiques is very low except for a very few unique items that are investment options. My Mom’s house looked like an antique store – total value at auction about $10,000. I agree with your Mom – use the chairs (our Boston Tea Party chair is in use). One of her kids broke it when young, but that becomes part of the on-going family story about the chair’s history, plus the fact that I reglued it.
Notable quote from an anthro movie on Kuang or Plongh (or something like that) reminiscing about the good old days before the reservation “We were rich. We had all that we could carry.”
Ah, the books. They are hard to get rid of. Like “family” somehow. As for those antiques, especially in a down-market, they don’t particularly bring in much money when you try to sell them. But oh, the stories they could tell, Paul. That’s part of the pleasure of using them. Knowing that each nick and worn spot is the result of some good usage, often many generations ago.
Beautiful and timely post for me to read today. I have never been materialistic or felt the urge to keep up with the Jones’ but my parents both are and do. It’s all about the image and “security” they feel enclosing their lives in big lavish homes and expensive things. I myself having just divorced have felt the need to “shed” all the things I accumulated throughout my empty marriage. That big old 1850’s farmhouse we bought to raise our children in just seems like a symbol of sadness to me now. All the days, weeks, months I spent renovating, decorating were just my way of covering up for the lack of love in my life. I am also a collector of old things, things with a history and although I love all of it, there really isn’t room for it in my small rental. After divorce, you are forced to reevaluate your life, refocus on what really has meaning. The happiness I long for, for my children, isn’t found in all those “things” I collected but in my relationships with friends and family. I want to spend my time nurturing myself, my children, and look forward to finding a small house with a small yard that doesn’t cost me so much money and time. Because in the end, all that matters is the love you feel and share with others. Not the stuff. Thanks for writing this. Susanne
@Susanne, I certainly empathize with the time and emotional investment, not to mention money, in “making a home” and filling it with so much – beauty and comfort through things and experiences, but as a way to compensate for what is lacking in the marriage. I also empathize with the house and belongings that become as much symbolic of that emptiness as they are suffocating, in their own way, when left to deal with them.
In your small house search, I would only recommend that you find a place with storage! But I find I much prefer my cozier space, even if it continues to mean a weeding-through of “stuff,” and different memories created in that post-divorce half of family life. I wish you all the best with this. I know it’s hard. And oh yes – what matters is the love we feel and share with others. Beautifully stated.
A couple of years ago when we decided to paint the inside of the house, we “shed” a number of things. I’m feeling the need to shed more now, but it’s harder because what I kept all has memories attached. But I’m tired of dusting the memories, finding places for things. A few years ago, I started taking lots of pictures when we went places which make much better souvenirs of our lives than more things. Of course, I turn those into books, but they’re not large books. Rationalizations.
Before the days of digital, Carol, there were (of course) real photographs – their packets and negatives, their albums, their boxes to hold the albums and packets… I haven’t the time or money to “digitize” and so photographs take up a surprising amount of space as well. But I don’t find keeping them to be rationalization. I think they are perhaps the most precious memories we can pass on.
Somehow, as with all things, there is a degree of moderation that we can live with. My “just enough” won’t be yours; your “too much” wouldn’t be mine. It’s finding that “just right” that is so difficult. It’s different at each stage, of course. And different again when we become the eldest generation, and caretaker for the memory-objects of the next.
I want to throw everything out and start over. I don’t think it’s for the aesthetics of an uncluttered mind. Rather, I sometimes feel like it all might swallow me up — especially when I think about all the things my mother will leave behind. I guess the reasons vary even when the intent is the same.
Maybe there’s value in throwing it all out, Kelly. Or at least, in being much more ruthless in choosing what we keep and what gets tossed or donated. Ideally, I think we would all acquire less, feel the need to acquire less, and appreciate those basics that some of us – including you – already know are much more important.
And incidentally, it is far more difficult for me to shed the things from my mother than those acquired when I was younger, particularly during marriage. And sometimes, I do feel as though her “stuff” is still swallowing me up. Not a good place to be.
And when the day arrives for the last leaving of all,
and the ship that never returns to port is ready to go,
you’ll find me on board, light, with few belongings,
almost naked like the children of the sea.
— Antonio Machado
I love shedding. Purging. Cleansing. Whatever. After the separation I got rid of so much and it felt amazing. It never ends though. New stuff comes in all of the time. But it just gives me more shedding experiences and I enjoy those. Feels so good to unload.
I love this post. After two weeks of decluttering my home, I’ve regained my appreciation to keep things simple. I like the feeling of donating and maintaining a bare-bones environment. It speaks to my minimalist philosophy.
Oh Rudri! I’m so envious! (You decluttered that quickly???) I’m still at it – but hoping to get where you are!