Too many things

My grandmother had contempt for knick knacks and collectibles, which she called ‘dust collectors’. Having moved in the past year I have more empathy for this opinion.

Why do we do it? Collect all this stuff? We are born with nothing yet almost immediately things are thrust onto us. And it never stops. I am not a ‘spender’ , yet despite a regular donation to the charities and the Goodwill, more and more things fill up the drawers and the cupboards. The garage and the closets and stuffed with objects retained out of guilt.

In the old days, a monk could call nothing his own except his bed and his toothbrush No wonder they used to look so carefree. I wonder about people with multiple homes and cars and collections; doe they never have a moment’s worry as they picture others running off with the contents?

I once told my family at Christmas time I didn’t want any more presents and I would prefer them to take something away. One brother obligingly took my car. It was too late to explain I didn’t mean that. I meant the dozen half empty bottles of cologne, the numerous sets of flannel sheets (no longer needed here in Phoenix), the books that I won’t ever read again and the deep fryer.

When we die our loved ones are persuaded to get a stunning coffin, and all the works. Still, it isn’t as bad as in olden days when the we insisted on slaughtering the hired help and wives to go with us on our journey into the yonder.

When I think of the junk in the garage – including a lawn mower and a snow shovel – I wish I was that monk.