I started pulling some of my stuff for an up-coming yards sale this morning.  The criterion for doing so was simple:  if I hadn’t seen/used/read the item since I moved to this house — gone!

It’s tough to do, for me, and for a lot of people.  Some will disagree with the, but I suspect most will side with me.  Materialism isn’t the problem, nor necessarily sentimental value to some of the stuff that I’m getting rid of.  Simply put:  your stuff is part of who you are.  It comes to define you, in many ways.

Looking through the crap I’m getting rid of, I can see reflections of things that were important to me, aesthetics that have shifted over time, vestigial remains of hobbies that I enjoyed, but that were pushed aside by time constraints, electronics replaced by newer devices but not sold/throw/given away.

Human nature is to acquire.  I think this is hardwired into our survival instincts from our Pleistocene origins:  collecting stuff was most likely a survival strategy.  Need something to bash an animal senseless?  Might want to hang onto that thigh bone you have.  What if is gets cold?  Should probably keep a few more furs and skins…just in case.  Having stuff — at least useful stuff — can aid your survival and comfort.  And represents status, as well.

And it becomes part of you, in many ways.  The model kits I built reflected an interest I had at a particular time.  I enjoyed building them; I like looking at them — they have no particular use.  I have some bits of art that mean a lot to me:  someone bought, painted, or drew it for me, or I feel a connection to the aesthetic…but it jut breaks up the blank walls.  There are wee toys that I don’t play with, but they are decoration to showcase my interests to outsiders.  Like tee-shirts with sayings, the logos of companies I buy from, or advertise a TV show or band I like, it’s a way to broadcast my interests to others.

This can make getting rid of things traumatizing.  I’ve had to do it a few times.  Several of those were circumstances where I had no choice but to shed my stuff — traveling out of a few steamer trunks, instead of a  moving van or truck.  Other times, it was a means of expediency — get rid of furniture or personal items to be able to move on the cheap, or fast.  Each time, dropping these things stripped a bit of my personality from me (it seemed.)  But after it was done, I often found I didn’t miss them…

There are exceptions, of course.  I occasionally miss my ’98 Mustang.  It was a present to myself for finishing my training (two years of it!) in the military; that car represented accomplishment.  When I sold it, she was six years old and on the verge of needed a lot of work to maintain her.  Gas was going up and I needed cheaper transport, so I sold her to buy my first Triumph motorcycle.  Still…I miss what that care meant.

I miss some of the comic book series I’ve had to divest myself of.  I hadn’t been reading them, and getting rid of them was a smart (and at the time profitable) idea, but not having them to flip through or reread removes those stories and artwork to my long-term memory.  I have trouble rereading books (save for non-fiction that I reference for my work), and most of the fiction I have I don’t return to.  It’s not practical to have them.  But seeing the spines on the bookshelves brings the stories and characters back to mind as if I did read them.

Selling, throwing out, giving away your things can be cathartic, however.  You can cut away portions of yourself that are ossified, memories that are painful, vestigal elements of yourself that are no longer vital to who you are.  Like ripping a band-aid off, the experience can be painful, but it can also be liberating — packing off those bits of your life that act as an anchor to moving ahead, or making changes that you need to to become who you will be.

I’m not going to miss most of this stuff I’m getting rid of — even some of the things I still enjoy having — and already I can feel some of those hooks in my psyche holding me back from going forward being torn away.

And I’ll have more room in the house…