So here is a confession I haven’t wanted to make:
For a double-digit number of years I have kept a rented storage space, filled with items from several households (my own, and those of several family members, some still with us, some of blessed memory). And I have this even though I live in a reasonably-sized house that can accommodate a reasonable amount of what I will lovingly call junk.
These are things we clearly don’t need, yet things we have not been able to release permanently from our lives.
Each spring I vow to clear it out, make the tough decisions, and give up this ridiculous expense. Each fall I realize I have not made any progress. Each year the weight of it all makes me just a little tired.
In a Bible class I took this summer, we had a discussion about translating 'd'var,' which is often used to mean 'thing' yet actually means 'word.' We discussed the importance of naming in Judaism, and what it might mean that our ancestors gave no separate name to 'thing'. There's a wisdom--and even perhaps a comfort--in giving less importance to stuff.
Today I took action. I conscripted my two licensed-driver sons and a banged up van, and found a neutral (and temporary!) spot with room enough to lay everything out for inspection plus a dumpster close by for the discards. Within a week the boys will have it all there.
I have already begun to plan the ‘tossing party’ when we’ll come together to remember, reflect, claim, divide, argue, relent, and finally, let stuff go. Wine will likely be involved; certainly tears. And also hugs.
I know I will be letting more than ‘stuff’ go. I feel lighter already.
