July
31, 2017
Greetings from
the gardener,
In the normal
process of human experience we accumulate things around us. Aside from the ordinary consumption and
owning, there are things that become a part of our household that have some
significance; a relationship with us.
The challenge becomes when you have lived so long that these things
begin to become a museum of burden.
I am grateful
for my wife who has the wisdom and courage to approach this problem. Sifting through our belongings, separating
the wheat from the chaff. At some point
though, she intersects with ‘my stuff’, which can only responsibly be dealt
with by me.
It won’t
surprise you that I am a sentimental man.
I look at the various tokens of history scattered about in the basement
and wonder first how I could have collected such a mass of detritus and at the
same time how I could possibly let go of it.
But I am steeling myself.
In other parts
of the house there are boxes of baby clothes, pictures, homework, drawings that
once graced the refrigerator. There are
stuffed animals laced with our family DNA, and first shoes and first Halloween costumes
and baptism congratulations. I am not
qualified to make decisions about these things because once I start looking at
them I will spend the balance of my years on this pale blue dot frozen in a
state of maudlin indecision.
But here in this
corner of the house is my trove of memories.
Things that have resisted the gravity of the dustbin, in some cases for decades,
which must now face a reckoning. I have
already had the first session, handing down judgement on tools and old parts
and buckets of nails and orphaned keys.
But here is where practicality and sensibility lose their influence.
There are
generations of running relics. Trophies
and plaques and mugs and ribbons. Foil
blankets from marathons, gear bags that held sweaty things, final instructions
to runners in 1989.
Dozens of race
numbers, my times scribbled in the margins, tiny bouquets of safety pins
rusting in the corners.
Service awards,
congratulatory plaques, faded banners, letters of commendation, mementos of
important events. Tokens exchanged with people I met from Goderich Ontario,
from Glasgow, Scotland, from Seoul South Korea.
Old leather
cycling shoes which did not keep up with my expanding foot. A flannel shirt purchased in the mountains when
I rode above the tree line, worn so much it is semitransparent.
And too much
more to share without rethinking what I have sworn to throw away.
These things
could be kept in plastic boxes in case I want to look at them again, or show
them to some grandchild who will have been told to be polite and listen to the
old stories. They could be forged into
some Pinterest inspired collage that could be displayed in a room where only a
rare visitor might see it, until the day would come they could be retired to
the basement again to await their ultimate fate.
There are
people I respect who have found ways to live simply, to guard the space around
them with discretion so that possessions don’t dominate. A writer I admire offered this wisdom;
everything you own is a relationship. If
you hold it in your hands and it does not bring you some kind of joy, it’s time
to end the relationship. The act of
doing this, though, is evocative and sometimes emotional. It is crossing through streams already
forded, and reliving moments that can be refreshing and can be exhausting.
It’s a hard
process but a healthy one. Simplify.
That word has a strong appeal, from the most important times in my life and the
most challenging. Simplify. Seems appropriate when it comes to my things.
It’s not
enough to think of a hypothetical grandchild that may one day take this old
trophy and put it in her own plastic box somewhere and for a moment have a
connection with me. I have had my
moments with the memories, and now it is time to lighten the load.
In truth this
is just the first layer. There are small
sanctuaries of mementos in closets and corners and boxes yet unopened. I’ll deal with those in their turn, and in
the meantime I’ll think carefully about what I save to commemorate the moments
that happen in the days to come. If I
hold something in my hands and it brings me some kind of joy, I’ll keep it.
Hope
this finds you pruning,
David
Copyright
© 2017 David Smith
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