Taking Stock of All the Stuff in Our Lives

‘Tis the season to think about “stuff,” whether we want to or not. The stuff we feel we should buy for others, the stuff we wish someone would give us.

We complain about how commercial the holidays have become while we’re on our way to the malls. One man I know said, “I think people should just give favors.” Yeah, right. I suspect he hasn’t had a lot of return on that request. Yet, most of us harbor a feeling that if we could simplify our lives, get rid of some of our stuff, we would be better human beings--more spiritual, closer to enlightenment.

I believe I grazed the hemline of enlightenment one afternoon when I was still living in Manhattan and was coming home from a kick-boxing lesson. As I walked up Central Park West, I saw ahead, right at my street corner, a large number of firetrucks, a crowd of onlookers and ominous billows of black smoke. My immediate assumption was that my building was on fire.

Since I had no pets at the time, nothing alive in my apartment except some houseplants, I was facing the possibility--I thought--of losing all my stuff. For a few minutes, I was a happy ascetic, breezing off into a spartan adventure with only the clothes on my back, my boxing gloves, my wallet and the extra pair of disposable contact lenses I always have with me.

I’m free, I thought--my soul can take wing, leave behind the cumbersome possessions that keep me bound to this worldly existence! I had, coincidentally, been giving a lot of thought to the possibility that the path to enlightenment can only be found by traveling light. Look at the historical examples: Buddha, Jesus, Gandhi. They moved around with little more than a blanket and a bowl of milk.

I must admit, though, that I was also, on this afternoon, comforted by the unholy thought that I had renter’s insurance. I might be without stuff, but I’d be getting a check.

As it turned out, my building was not on fire; it was one at the other end of the street. But my all-too-brief brush with enlightenment inspired me to think even more deeply about the things that we mortals accumulate in our lives. I give even more thought to it during the Christmas season, often as I’m looking for a parking space at the mall.

Having now moved across the country a couple of times, I can attest to the fact that stuff seems to multiply as soon as you start putting it in boxes. “I never realized I had so much stuff!” most of us have moaned at one time or another, as we’re taping up our 45th box.

Books and record albums always seem to be the most problematic--heavy and cumbersome. I was proud of myself when I took the step of getting rid of my albums and converting to CDs. There was a downside, though; some albums will never be transferred to CD. I recall one little-known eponymous album by a singer named Bim. There were several songs on it that I liked, but alas, Bim cannot be found on CD.

I was equally as proud when, in another move, I decided to weed out my books. Even my tattered high school copies of Camus and Sartre, my anthology of existentialist writers--evidence of my serious interest in philosophy during my teen years.

I put them all into cardboard boxes and drove them to Goodwill, confident that I was not only contributing to my own spiritual development, but I also was helping a new generation of budding writers, seekers and existentialists who couldn’t afford the prices at Barnes & Noble. The burly man with a missing front tooth whose job it was to accept donations in the Goodwill parking lot saw it differently.

“We can’t take these books,” he snarled. “They’re not new.”

I looked around the lot at rusted fans, dusty television sets and piles of stained clothing. “This is the Goodwill,” I pointed out. “Nothing here is new. These are books. People need books.”

“Can’t take ‘em.”

Unwilling to retreat, I left my boxes right where they were, jumped in my car and sped away, wondering if I would be stopped by the police for trying to improve the literacy of the local residents. The road to enlightenment is often perilous.

What is it about possessions, the things we accumulate in our lives, that prod us to ask deeper questions: Who would we be without these things? Do possessions have any relation to our true essence? Why has almost every spiritually enlightened person shunned material things?

I think all of us--rich, poor and in between--have asked ourselves some version of this. Thoreau counseled people to “simplify” their lives. But is this always a material concept, or is a simple way of life accomplished in the deeper corners of our being?

Maybe we romanticize both extremes; beneath extraordinary wealth and lean poverty are still human beings who want to sleep peacefully and wake up happy. That seems the most plausible definition of simplicity--the capacity, the willingness to just be happy where we are, with whatever we have. It’s something all of us will probably ponder until we leave this world. We will continue to wonder if others have answers we don’t have; we will offer up the subject to our fellow human beings, just to see what they’ll say, just to make sure we’re not alone in our questioning.

Not everyone is willing to ruminate on this subject with us, though. On one of my moves, I stood in the midst of boxes and furniture and said to the mover, “When I was in college, I put everything I owned into my Ford Pinto, parked it in a friend’s garage, and went camping for 10 days.” I thought for a second that this man was going to acknowledge the profundity of my observation. But instead he said, “You owned a Ford Pinto? That piece-of-[junk] car?”

What I’ve decided about possessions is this: We are, certainly, more than what we own. But some of our things have stories attached to them. Some were given to us, passed down, or found like treasures. Pieces of our lives are often represented by objects.

I have discarded, tossed aside things that I now miss terribly; in tossing them away, I showed no regard for certain chapters of my life, certain experiences or relationships. We lose something precious when we don’t cherish the treasures, the remnants, the talismans of the lives we have lived.

I collide with that ache sometimes, as I look for a book, or a print, or a quilt, and then remember how hastily I rid myself of it, thinking it didn’t matter. I no longer believe that I’ll be closer to enlightenment if I have next to nothing as far as possessions. I do, however, think I will be a more evolved person if I strive for balance, if I remember to cherish what I have, knowing that my things don’t define me, but the stories behind some of those things help remind me who I have become.

I made a decision this Christmas that seems like a reasonable compromise: I’m hand-crafting most of my Christmas gifts. I’ve always been an arts-and-crafts junkie, and people seem to appreciate the time, effort and creativity that goes into handmade gifts. Or if they don’t, they pretend they do just to be nice.

This plan hasn’t, however, gotten me out of stores, malls and traffic jams since I need to get materials. And unfortunately, many other people seem to have stolen my idea. There are long lines at crafts stores, and short tempers. I saw two women fighting over the last bag of pillow stuffing. I considered going over to them and suggesting they just give favors for Christmas, but I was afraid of getting mauled in the midst of their fight.

So, I did what I think Gandhi or Buddha or Jesus would have done: I ignored them, waited patiently in line and said a silent prayer of thanks that I was making picture frames.