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Lost and Found

© Janet Kitto

I've heard so many of you say that you hate to throw stuff away. It seems wrong to toss clutter into the garbage. You could have a garage sale to recoup some of your losses, you could donate old clothes to a charity, magazines and books to a senior's lodge, and you could pass on your child's baby furniture to a friend or family member expecting children of their own. Sure, there are many ways to find new homes for the things that are cluttering up your life. I can't just throw away something I think might have value to someone else, and I have a problem with throwing out things I never should have bought in the first place. I don't consider the landfill to be this big black hole that I give no thought to. On the contrary, I visualize each bag I put out adding to all the others. It was that kind of thinking that built the clutter walls that surround me now. I had to recycle absolutely everything I could, I had to keep everything just in case I would need it one day. I gave more value to my stuff than I did to quality of life, to my happiness, to the simpleness of being me. I defined myself by being a resourceful collector in all the little packaged food boxes I saved for storing bits of this and groups of that. I became obsessed with this thought that I was doing the right thing; I was recycling materials and therefore saving the world in my own little way, except I lost sight of something every important - I lost touch with how I felt without all the chaos around.

That safety net still surrounds me. On the bookshelf behind my desk I have six boxes of different sizes and shapes. Three of them are empty. I haven't been able to get rid of them because I am still faced with this feeling that I need them. One box, that is pretty Tiffany blue, is full of the bubble wrap that housed the rock cut crystal lidded box I received from my husband four months ago. I think I can use the box for storing envelopes, but I haven't gotten around to putting the envelopes in it yet. I have the box in front of me now and as I look at it I have to ask myself, "Do you want to be defined by the status of the name on the box? Do you want to be owned by a box?" If I allow myself to let it go I can still be a person who looks for chickadees in the trees and devours books in the minutes found while eating breakfast. I still will feel passionate about hearing the story from all sides without that cardboard box. As long as I hold onto the notion that it's wrong to throw anything away I will be forced to live with that decision that clutters up my thoughts, my space and who I am. I will be avoiding the sense of freedom that comes with letting go. I will be living only to manage my things and never have enough opportunity to look inward. What definition does this box give my soul?