Possessions

May 6, 2019

Greetings from the collection,

You have seen these people, pushing a grocery cart down an alley, piled high with what seems to be random collection of trash.  Or perhaps sitting in a doorway, a cardboard box next to them, a plastic bag, a lumpy uneven outline of their belongings.  Maybe they are hovering at one of the tables at McDonald’s, wearing way too many clothes, a battered vinyl suitcase at their feet.

Got that impression?

Some of what they gather is for survival.  Blankets and clothing and paper to sleep on.  Often it is other things that matter.  This is my home.  This rock, this empty pill bottle, this broken cup, this bundle of keys, this mitten. This is what I have to take comfort in. This thing matters to me.  This holds a memory for me, or reminds me of who I am, or was. 

Now we have just looked past the impression and sampled the understanding.

I would tell you my possessions don’t define me.  I don’t think about what things I own very much.  I go past them throughout the day, not considering their value in any way.  Most of the stuff is just that; stuff.  I don’t consider this or that a source of pride or a thing I particularly care about.  There are a few exceptions; this book, that painting, a table I built, those bike gloves, a t shirt I like.  Some have sentimental value, some are things I use regularly and would miss them if they were gone. 

If you asked me if my possessions defined me my reaction would be “No, of course not. I am deeper than that, I am far more significant than the things I own.”  I’m sure you’d respond the same way.  See? We have that in common.

Many years ago, I was on the Pine Ridge reservation in South Dakota, a witness to a host of stark differences in culture from my life.  One afternoon we were driving across the plains there and I pointed to a mobile home, the most common structure on the rez, surrounded by all manner of abandoned things.  Washing machines, bicycles, car tires, the husk of a car, already resting on its wheels, settled into the dirt up to the rocker panels.  I asked my friend; “Why do they let all this trash pile up around their houses?” 

My friend tried to explain but even after a week of paying attention I felt the same question.  I wanted the Oglala to behave like me, to take pride in where they lived, to care for their environment, to show respect for their things.  I wanted to understand, as long as it was an understanding from my perspective.

Last year I read the book ‘Factfulness’ and one obscure story leapt out at me.  Hans Rosling was asked by a visitor to this small village in Africa: “Why are there so many half-built walls?  Don’t these people ever finish anything?”  The author explained that there were no banks and so when the people earned any money that was not committed to survival, they bought bricks.  Then they put them into walls so they would not be stolen. 

It was what my friend in South Dakota had tried to tell me.  The people on the rez would never throw way an old bicycle, even if there was a place to take it.  It had value to them, even if I didn’t see it because it wasn’t hanging neatly on hooks in a garage.

Up and down the spectrum of wealth, people collect things around them, sometimes from need, or for enjoyment, or for no definable reason, they just want.  Many of us accumulate with almost no thought to it, and no memory of the decision.  When we have a little money that is not committed to something, we buy something we want or need.  I’d say I fall into that category at times, but just so you know, I am not defined by my possessions.

I know people who work hard to make an average living, who live in safe places, drive reliable cars, make careful choices in their purchases, are generous to those in need.  They may own RV’s or snowmobiles or above ground pools.  Maybe they have a collection of Disney souvenirs.  I know it’s not fair to define them by their possessions, with so little information.  But it’s tempting.

There is a movement of awareness about what we own, the whole Marie Kondo philosophy.  She would have us ‘confront’ our possessions, and keep only those that spark joy, and show them gratitude.  Maybe you know someone who is trying to tidy up this way.  And probably have formed an opinion about it.  Personally, I see the value in the process, but I haven’t felt a strong enough pull to confront the pile of sweaters in my closet.                 

There are the extremes in every culture when it comes to owning things; the insanely obvious wealthy people, the collectors who arbitrarily stockpile the obscure or rare,  the hoarders, maybe trying to fulfill some need or battling an obsession, or the minimalists, seeking to live out a philosophy in the things they choose to own or not.  You’ve seen those people, right?  Got that impression?

See, all these examples of people and their things, we can see who they are at a glance.  The homeless fringe people, the unemployed alcoholic on the rez, the wealthy woman trying to impress us with her jewelry, the hipster who only buys repurposed clothing, the old man who lives alone surrounded by stacks of Reader’s Digests and socks full of 1972 quarters, the simplicity expert who keeps telling us he won’t be controlled by what he owns.  We have an impression, and we have an opinion.

Our possessions don’t define us.  On the other hand, they define everyone else, don’t they?

Hope this finds you seeking to understand,

David

Copyright © 2019 David Smith