DECEMBER 13, 2021 – It’s time to face the inevitable imperative of down-sizing. It’s time to quit talking about “stuff” and start doing something about it.
First, let’s define “stuff.” Of course there’s generic stuff—in my case, for example, there’s ancient ski equipment and . . . especially, scrap lumber that will surely fulfill a need and save the time and trouble of a future trip to the lumberyard. For extra credit: avoidance of the expense of buying a brand new six-foot-long two-by-four, when all that’s needed is a true and tried two-foot section cut from the 31-inch piece that’s mixed up with all the other orphaned pieces of wood hanging out in our garage.
I can further rationalize my saving habits by invoking the environment. The wood scraps in our garage reflect consumer demand over many years. Those days were long before we were conscious of climate change, and certainly before I felt any personal responsibility for it. Not so with the two-by-four I’d buy at the lumberyard today. Now I know that my consumption impulses tie directly to the declining ecological condition of the planet.
In any event, there’s the physical stuff that time, use, and other diversions have rendered obsolete. This part of stuff is easy once you conquer inertia. A couple of guys at minimum wage can one day scoop the generic stuff into three piles: 1. Recycling; 2. Roll-off dumpster; and 3. Spring garage sale—then recycling, roll-off dumpster. All that’s required is . . . Action!
The thing about tangible stuff is the intangible side of it—what stuff represents, albeit almost exclusively in the eye of the owner. This portion of stuff is far harder to part with—whether in digitized or in tangible form, the papers, letters, photographs that one accumulates over decades of creative effort, vocational purpose, and interaction with fellow humanity. Off to the side are the keepsakes, significant . . . but only to the owner.
Realistically, my personal stuff is really of no interest to anyone–today or tomorrow. No one is ever going to write a scholarly biography of my life and times—hardly of my life—and thus, no one will be interested in story notes jotted on the back of an envelope.
As I flip through my old work files—paper and digitized—I find many-a-page that triggers memories of notable characters, disputes, transactions, and other vocational experiences that I’d long forgotten. But do even I care whether these ancient documents are preserved? If the answer is anything but “No!” I should be referred post-haste to a therapist.
And then we have the terabyte or two of digital files. Who in his or her right mind—least of whom, the creator himself—is going to filter anything beyond a few personal financial files?
So, why is all this stuff still occupying space in my life, or more accurately, space in my space? It’s time to part with the past and be forward-looking. It’s time to dump and delete.
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© 2021 by Eric Nilsson
