We cleaned out the basement last week, tossing out articles we'd been saving needlessly, or things which had lost their usefulness over time. Things like old magazines, broken toys, household items, and objects that were once the property of deceased relatives or pets. It was sort of a Spring cleaning in the Fall.
Over time, I'd gotten used to weaving my way around piles of bags and turning sideways so I could slip past stacks of cardboard boxes. Meanwhile, others wondered out loud, "How can you live like this?" The years had provided a certain comfort knowing that I didn't need to make a decision about what would go and what would remain, as long as everything was under one roof and could stay dry. Lots of my "stuff" had sentimental value, while other portions, although broken, retained a kind of usability. Just the other day, I removed a magnet from an obsolete church key (bottle opener) and my son used it to retrieve an unreachable bolt that had dropped inside the car engine he was working on. See? Some things are worth saving.
I'm a sentimentalist. It's not easy for me to see my past tossed out. Items which are broken or seem no longer useful still have value to me on some level. Old toys our children played with when they still lived at home, the collar our dog wore as I took her to the vet to have her put to sleep, old black and white photographs of people who died before I was born, all have meaning to me. And so, I saved much that could have been thrown out.
The temptation now is to think that with all this room, we can store more stuff, but I've taken an oath to resist such activity. After all, I don't live alone. But someday, when I'm gone, others will go through what I've left behind, and perhaps, before tossing it all out, they will sense just a slight bit of what I felt by keeping it for all those years, and they'll see that it was because I was thinking of them.
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