Knowing One's Stuff

taking a hard look at my inner magpie

crocuses

It’s only in the aftermath of a calamity that bravery comes into play—in how you respond, in how you take agency, in the meaning you make of the calamity. It’s what you create from it, how you continue to show up for yourself and for others, and whether you keep an open heart despite being hurt, despite the impulse to protect yourself from more pain, more loss.

Suleika Jaouad

When I was seven I committed my first crime. I released a candy wrapper from an open car window and watched it take flight. My father pulled over and patiently waited for traffic to pass. He turned the car around, spotted the neon orange plastic trash and asked me to pick it up. When we returned to the car, my father said: “Never live your life assuming that others will pick up after you. Littering is illegal and signals contempt for our planet.” And he left it at that. I didn’t understand what contempt meant but knew it wasn't good. I was mortified and in tears, but his simple declaration never left me.

My parents were environmentally conscious and raised their kids to follow suit. But ironically they died leaving heaps of tangible property. Many of their nicer things went to descendants and friends, but most were thrifted or tossed. Dozens of boxes of their stuff— probably all junk—papers, floppy disks, outdated office machinery, cracked paperweights, stacks of unopened personal stationery, and still more random bits like piles of binder clips and post-it notes — sit in my barn. So far I have only found one object of value tucked inside a book, but I haven’t had the oomph to go through most of it. I’d rather do my taxes than spend days sorting through stuff.

Navigating cancer is daunting but comes with the opportunity for reflection. I recently updated an old estate plan and eyeballed a list of our tangible property. After my parents died I became clutter-phobic and purged a great deal, but the evidence on paper suggests otherwise. I thought I was doing a good job minimizing our possessions since I own one house and don’t have a storage unit. I love our home — it’s filled with beautiful art, most created by friends. I designed a sanctuary for my family and love to welcome folks over. Still, there is no question that along the way we have accumulated stuff that will burden the next generation and contribute to our throwaway ethos. My magpie ways highlight the tension between cherishing beauty and needing to possess it.

Luxury is not a necessity to me, but beautiful and good things are.
ANAIS NIN

I live in a valley famous for its consumption. Nearby Aspen is dominated by luxury brand franchises, expensive restaurants, part-timers with 3rd, 4th, or 5th homes, and other symptoms of extreme privilege. Recently, out-of-town buyers purchased a hundred-million-dollar house. And another listing just went on the market for 150 million. I keep thinking about these sums and how our valley’s billion-dollar real estate market is a closed feedback loop. Very few benefit from the stratospheric profits, and I have yet to see a real estate broker topping the list of local philanthropic donors. These record-breaking homes will be renovated endlessly (generating more for the landfill) and will probably sit empty for the better part of the year.

Extreme consumerism is now embedded in the American dream. More is fabulous after all. I remember an eighties bumper sticker that said, “He who dies with the most toys wins,” and this mantra never vanished the way eighties hairstyles and mix tapes did. Using possessions as proof of superiority while conflating self-worth with net worth is still very much in vogue. Maybe even more so given the proliferation of billionaires since then and their hold over the public consciousness. When will we be able to say “We have enough?”

We can no longer afford our magpie ways if we ever could. It will be hard to shift our materialistic appetites and consumer-driven economy since we are saturated with messages to upgrade to something better, to something more sparkly, to something that will make our lives perfect. On more than one occasion, I have fallen for this particular kind of catnip. But we can make better consumer choices and demand more sustainability from our corporations. It is easy to ask ourselves if we need something and if will it last. In my case, a new boiler yes, more pollinators, yes, but another pair of boots, no. It’s a constant discipline to curtail my inner magpie, but it’s getting easier with time. Though I still rubber-neck at estate sale signs.

My father taught me that “small’ actions like hurling trash out a window have serious consequences, and when I forget about this simple construct and our connectivity, I falter.

Happy Earth Day.