Why So Much Stuff?

Stuff: Noun 1) matter, material, articles, or activities of a specified or indeterminate kind that are being referred to, indicated, or implied. “She lost all her stuff in a fire.” 2) the basic constituents or characteristics of something or someone. “Grandma was made of tougher stuff than I.” Verb 1) fill a receptacle or space tightly with something. “My house is stuffed with…stuff.” 2) used to express indifference toward or rejection of (something). “Stuff this Contents Collaboration crap, insurance sucks!”

When the boys were little they loved Legos and marble tracks. I swear they were building constantly and whenever I cleaned, I found random marbles or Legos separated from the pack and under couches, tables, inside laundry baskets, drawers, the cat bowl. It was endless. With time, they seemed to multiply. I didn’t buy more marbles but they were everywhere. I can’t count the number of times my husband stepped on a Lego at night, howling like a furious puppy, affronted by the things. It was a curse. Even after they got older and moved out, and we stored all of their collections away in Rubbermaid bins, I still found marbles and Lego pieces. A few months after the fire when I was walking the upper property, far from any bedroom or playroom of theirs, I found a marble, green and gleaming in the sun, untouched by the flames. Yes, these things had a life of their own, as well as an ability to multiply rivaled only by the red ants that have plagued the land for years.

This has been a year of focusing on material possessions and I’m getting tired of it. After the fire, we lost all our stuff. The random things I’d grabbed from my office desk plus two days’ worth of clothes and a swimsuit were all I had. My husband had even less, just what he’d packed for a few days in Portland with the eldest. We didn’t even have closed toed shoes. My younger son had been a better packer than I during the evacuation. While I was rushing around outside, blackened leaves falling from the sky as I tried to feed and water all the animals we had to leave behind, he packed every piece of his gaming tech he owned. In addition, he’d never really unpacked his suitcase since he arrived home in March when his school closed down due to covid. So all he did was a quick zip of his bag and everything he had was in his car. The eldest son had left two days prior with his stuff. It’s strange, but a year later, they own more than me and my husband.

The first thing our insurance asked us to do was fill out an inventory. I’ve already written about this excruciating activity. Eventually they paid us the depreciated value of our stuff and now every month I have to sit down with my credit card bill and look at each purchase to determine 1) is this a replacement (hint, since we lost all our worldly possessions, everything but food and toiletries is a replacement) and 2) is there still money owed to us for this stuff (second hint, they depreciated most items 50% so yes, there’s money still owed.)

I’ve never spent so much attention to my stuff. Before the fire, I bought things, owned things, and was gifted things. I’d watch it pile up in spite of all my good intentions to live simply, and then purge every November, donating the useful and throwing out the broken. Then I wouldn’t think about my stuff until a year later when the cycle repeated itself. This past year, I’ve become aware of what I really need and what I like to collect. Moreover, since we have to move again and again until we figure out the home thing, it’s become clear that I only want stuff that I’m willing to cart around.

We’re going to be “homeless” for two weeks and I need to figure out what to do with our stuff during that time. As I walk around our current rental, I’m grateful to insurance for the rental furniture. Most of what I see will go away with a quick phone call. They will descend to my residence and take it all away. To me, this is a thrill. However, in each closet and drawer, we’ve begun to acquire things again and the sheer volume has me overwhelmed. My goal had been to not own more than a small 5x8 trailer of stuff to move. It appears I’ll have to take two trips. I liked having less, so how do I have so much more? Like the marbles and Legos of our past, stuff has infiltrated our lives. I must have let down my guard. Whatever am I going to do?

I started with a donation pile. Day by day it grew, becoming a mountain of high-end trash. About 90% of it was stuff that people graciously gave me just after the fire. They’d say, “Here take this stuff and give what you don’t want to other fire victims.” They were trying to help and I don’t want to demean the act. Yet the truth is, I didn’t have it in me to say no to their offering but I also didn’t have what it took to make sure what I didn’t want was given to another fire survivor. After living with it for a year in my closets, I understand that most of those donations was stuff the giver didn’t want and now I don’t want to cart it with me. I also had clothes that I bought the day after I found out my house was gone that in hindsight, I’m not sure why I bought them. I hate to iron, yet everything was linen and wrinkly fabric. I did well on underwear and jammies, but the outfits I bought that day were not pre-fire me and definitely not post-fire me. I don’t know who I’m becoming, but it isn’t an ironer.

I brought the donations to the local thrift store that has been my main outlet for rebuilding my wardrobe this past year and then turned to what was left and split it into two categories; stuff I’m willing to put in a hot shed in the middle of a burn zone and stuff I want to keep cooler and perhaps safer in my friend’s garage. We picked up the eldest from college last weekend and he filled 2/3 of a 5x8 U-Haul. I stuffed it and the back of my SUV with more stuff and the two of us stuffed the stuff into the hot shed, crossing our fingers there won’t be another fire while we’re traveling between rentals. As I locked up the shed I asked him, “You sure this can burn?” We looked at the pile of stuff and agreed, yes, it can burn. This is the new normal for us. Now, I must focus on that last bit of stuff that will go in the garage; electronics, the pantry/spices, toiletries and supplements, instruments, and the things I don’t want to burn…mostly because I don’t feel like going through the hassle of replacing them again. In the end, this will be our wardrobes and our offices.

To be fair, I’m responsible for much of this accumulation of stuff. I have a thing for clothes, shoes, handbags, and books. I can still share a ridiculously small closet with my husband, but my wardrobe is two boxes of clothing and another box of shoes and bags. We once had two libraries and almost 2000 books. After the fire, people were asking me how they could help and rather than let them give me stuff they no longer wanted (I’d figured out what was happening by then) I asked them to send me a copy of their favorite titles. I now have a sweet collection. Just the right size and new books to read every day. It’s heaven. Still, I have to move them at least two more times.

Here’s the real kicker—I’m moving into a furnished rental for the next year but after that, my home will be a 400 square foot tiny home on wheels plus a small she-shed to write in. I really, really, really can’t have this much stuff. I can’t believe that a year after the fire, I have to downsize ALREADY! I’m not the only one, many of my fire friends are overwhelmed with stuff, things piling up in their garages, Amazon boxes arriving sometimes twice daily. Stuff from their parents, their friends, their neighbors. It’s hard to say no but later we have to deal with it and that’s hard as well. I gotta figure this out though. The clock is ticking to tiny home living. I may have already run out of room.

I think of all the stuff we had on the property before the fire. Some boxes we brought from Illinois thirteen years ago that burned unopened. All those things were lost, but they also made a mess in their demise. For months, the burned toxic waste was hauled off the mountain, out of our sights but into someone else’s town. Where did the waste go? Do I want to know? I see my neighbors that still have their stuff stressing about how they will keep those things safe while living in a forest in California during climate change. In the end, this is a major reason why we’re not putting a large home back on the land—less space means less to lose, which means less waste to leave behind on the land but also less to protect. I want to live there without fear, thus anything on the property must be something I’m willing to let burn. If there’s only a 400 sf home and a 12x10 she-shed, then I’ve created a built-in cap to the amount of stuff I can collect, and also the amount of stuff I have to worry about, and most of all, the amount of stuff left behind to burn and leave a toxic mess. I could cut down the remaining trees and live surrounded by a concrete pad to protect a bigger house with more stuff, but if I wanted to live in such a place, I’d live in Schaumburg or Milpitas. I want to live with nature and less stuff is part of that agreement.

There’s also the fact that stuff comes from the Earth in some way and will return to the Earth when I’m done with it, even if it doesn’t burn. The indigenous tribes of this area knew this and kept their stuff to a minimum—basically whatever you could carry when they moved on. We are a vastly different sort of people, putting down large foundation houses and then stuffing every nook and cranny with stuff. The Great Pacific garbage patch is a result of our need for stuff. The wars fought for diamonds and lithium are part of the story of stuff. The paving of our lands for malls and parking lots—all for stuff. My heart has been in the right place for decades, but not my will. I have a second chance to try again and it appears the only way to keep me honest is to reduce my living space. I guess that’s the way it goes, because for some reason, stuff keeps multiplying around here and I’d rather travel lighter during this latter part of my life.

I was raised Catholic and there’s a saint you can pray to help you find the things you lost—St. Anthony. I wonder if I can pray to him to help keep the stuff away? Let’s give it a try:

Dear St. Anthony, I ask you on bended knee to help drive away the stuff from my life. Stuff my home with love, not stuff. Grant me the stuff to say no to stuff. Help me say stuff it to shopping for more stuff. Keep that stuff which I lost to the fire, lost to the fire.

So mote it be.