We live a life of stuff. Things all over the place. Things we think are necessary, and all the stuff that isn't really, but brings us comfort in one way or another. On our kitchen door is a poster, hand drawn by my 10 year old, that says "Home is where happiness lives". And while this is gloriously true for us now, and much celebrated, home is also a place where every single horizontal surface is really, secretly, just a potential shelf.
Our house is full of all the stuff we need in order for our basic needs to be met, and then everything else.
A suitcase of family photographs. The plant my dad grew from a literal stick, that I've tended and kept alive for all of the 28 years that he's been gone. Clothes that no longer fit well, or even belong to living people, but that hold memories too precious to let go of. Books that may never be read again, but that contain flowers, pressed by loved ones long gone. The pictures my children have made over the years, stick figures becoming full bodied reflections of how they see our family. The intangible ache of heart tied up, stitched through, woven into the physical stuff that fills cupboards and drawers and wardrobes and attics and garages and garden sheds and underbed storage systems.
For some of us, we keep the stuff that calls back the memory of the people who made it, gathered it, stitched it, held it last. And we hold onto it with an overwhelming fear that if we ever let go, a tiny part of what we still have of that person, will be gone forever too.
For some of us, scarcity in childhood leads us to gather up and keep everything that may be useful, that may prevent scarcity in an uncertain future. And our homes are filled with bags and boxes of things we probably won't ever use, but which carry the possibilities of a proverbial lifeboat in times of financial hardship.
There are many reasons we gather stuff and things about us, not least the never ending push of consumerist culture, but every reason, I feel, is deeply and intrinsically linked to our learned beliefs and experiences around abundance. But what happens when we live in a space that has increasingly less room for all the stuff?
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