Soon after Susan died in 2019, I began a still-ongoing process of evaluating my life to determine what I possessed and what possessed me, so to speak. There were many things that I had kept for years without even looking at. Susan's death helped me to realize that in many cases, the joy is in the memory. But sometimes the burdens of owning Too Many Things inspire changes. This is one of the reasons I sold my comics collection a couple of months ago. I still love comics, but I have collected editions of the things I truly love, and don't have to have the physical comics any longer (and this was the fourth time I've sold my collection in my lifetime, so it wasn't an unprecedented decision).
In the past few years, I have re-homed Susan's antique cross-stitch collection, as well as her cross-stitch flosses and linens; our voluminous 25,000 book mystery collection; over a dozen items of furniture (some no longer needed, some that reflected tastes that have now changed); over 500 laserdiscs; an enormous amount of clothing; multiple sets of dishes and small appliances; and a huge assortment of holiday decor items that I had not used in years. Along the way, I found a box that I had packed up in 1986, when I moved from my Kennesaw home to my first Marietta home; it had not been unboxed in the almost 40 years since. I looked through the items once, smiled a the memories as I said goodbye, and donated what would be useful before I discarded the rest.
Recently, I referenced the whole "Swedish death cleaning" concept, and a friend who is a part of the Dr. No's team laughed and said, "I started to say something about that but thought it might be taken the wrong way." I assured her it wasn't. While that's not the inspiration for my cleaning (my primary goal is to implement a five-year plan that would enable me to sell the overflow house after I have sufficiently downsized), it reflects a similar attitude. When Mom died, when Dad died, and when Susan died, I spent a lot of time going through the accumulations of three lifetimes and I became aware how many of those things had not brought joy into Mom's or Dad's or Susan's lives for many years prior to their deaths. It took me many months to go through all of those things and deal with them, and in some cases I had no real idea what to do with them (JM Early was a lifesaver when it came to re-homing cross-stitch and quilting materials).
I always recall the final moments of Citizen Kane, when the workers are destroying the accumulations of Charles Foster Kane's personal life (largely the items he had boxed up to save after his mother's death). To him, those items had meaning; to everyone else, they were junk. I didn't want my junk to be a burden on those who survive me--and I didn't want my junk to be a burden on me.
I am lucky that my memory remains sharp and vivid at 72. I carry the wonderful memories of every item that has brought me joy in my life, even though I haven't seen some of them in almost six decades (I still smile when I think about my Man from UNCLE gun and shoulder-holster set). I can get rid of some of those items and still have those memories. And if I someday get to the point that my memory isn't so sharp and vivid--well, having the items probably wouldn't do me much good at that point anyway.
This is not a somber, melancholy, or depressing process. It is a celebration of the myriads of things that have helped to make my life so wonderful, and a recognition that life is always an ongoing process of change. Life is not and should not be a museum of one's past. It should always be a process of finding joy and contentment in life's present, and an eagerness to experience life's future.
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