Acquisitions, Mergers, and the Purge

The stuff of life

Maya, Hiroshi Furuyoshi, 1959

When I was a child, my grandmother had an antique shop. Down a few steps from a sidewalk in the DC suburbs, she reigned over a small warren of rooms in a space that was once an apartment. I spent a lot of time there, dragging my fingers over Empire desks and chairs named for French kings, gazing at my child’s reflection in ornate Regency mirrors.

My favorite thing about those visits (aside from unlimited access to ginger ale and Red Hots) was the tiny closet in a small room at the very back of the shop. This prior closet no longer had a door and its walls were lined, top to bottom, with narrow shelves upon which sat an array of tiny treasures (much like that image at the top). A jumble of collectibles that were not important or valuable enough for the main display in the big rooms, but were curious enough that my grandmother’s sharp collector’s eye couldn’t leave them behind. She would send me to the closet on each visit to select one thing, a trinket to take home and squirrel away in my child world.

Thus began my season of acquisitions.

Deep in the middle of my life now, I’ve come to identify three seasons of stuff: Acquisitions, Mergers, and the Purge.

Acquisitions

I’ve no idea what became of all those thrilling little bits of early materialism found in grandma’s shop — tiny cups and chipped figurines, odd jewels and hair pins, finger bowls and opera glasses. Some of them are probably still with me, in drawers or on dressers, but most slipped away in the mist of a distracted life. Perhaps some were gifted and some, no doubt, were axed in a purge.

But those items represented the beginning of my headlong charge into the gathering of stuff, the building of what I hoped would be a life. Not just any life, but my own signature life well lived. One needs the props of such a thing. Through my teens and into my twenties, I accepted anything that was free (surely these tattered textiles and that exotic flute will help me tell my story somehow). I haunted estate sales and flea markets with the goal of filling my life with stuff. It’s the stuff that holds us up, provides the raft and the ballast in the storms. Right?

So, I cheerfully collected things that seemed pretty or witty or potentially useful. Things that might make the right comments about me, add some much needed gravity or mystery to the story I thought I should be telling. As I got older, I became more discerning and started editing here and there. The stuff gave me a certain comfort, though, and convinced me that I was on my way to that life well lived.

Mergers

Then a new character entered my story and stayed. He brought, as they do, his stuff. All the things that he had been gathering to create his reality and tell his story. The mergers bring lots of stuff and, with it, the challenge of harmonious mingling. I’m talking only about the things here — the task of human harmony is a very different conversation.

My merger brought some treasure — interesting furniture from a grandmother’s New York apartment; lamps and mirrors of unknown provenance; small curious tchotchkes. Also, boxes of broken trinkets, gifts from exes, and a lifetime of scribbling. Suddenly, my living space was packed with two stories, his and mine, and in the glow of a new merger, it felt mostly like happy plenty. We landed in a big enough house and continued on the path of acquisitions, seeking items that told our story.

After a while, the chaff begins to declare itself. The stuff becomes clutter. My chaff is not his, and his is not mine, but it becomes clear that there are entirely too many things. Suddenly, that tiny teapot from grandma’s shop is an eyesore and those flirty bits of fabric obtained in a burst of good intention are ridiculous. I can barely reattach a button — the patterns and the fabric are clearly meant for someone else’s story.

Slowly, the Purge begins.

Purge

The stuff has to go. These things that were supposedly telling my story, creating the backdrop of this life well lived, now seem nothing but clamor and clutter. A distraction from the business of life. Some things have value, either economic or sentimental, and have escaped the axe. There are things that stay for no other reason than the story they tell when I look at them.

The pleasure of the purge, however, cannot be overstated. Boxes of stale, broken, ugly, useless things — when pushed out the door, they create little pockets of space that have nothing in them but promise. I can no longer bear yard sales, flea markets, jumbles. Jumbles! Synonyms for “jumble” — clutter, muddle, mess, confusion, disarray, tangle, imbroglio — are all things to avoid. Never mind fleas.

This is how I feel now, in the season of the Purge, but I have very clear memories of the markets and sales. Oh how I loved, as a young woman on a weekend morning, to go marketing. Picking through cast-offs, searching for the missing piece of my puzzle. I sold myself the illusion of acquisition as a means to an end. The life well lived.

Now that I’ve begun in earnest to sift through it all, I’m realizing that some of it was necessary. Some of my puzzle pieces were successfully plucked from the jumbles and properly placed in my story. But I’ve also realized that the life well lived has nothing to do with the stuff and everything to do with the intangibles. Love, laughter, grief, memory. Light and dark and dreams.

I wonder, here in the middle of the Purge, if there is another season coming. Perhaps I’ll return to my youthful habit of perusing the piles, seeking the treasure. If so, I’ll bring a much more critical eye to the activity. There’s only so much room in this life well lived.

Cheers! 🌞
Lisa

---

Things to share:

• Doom boxes, for getting your arms around the stuff.

• So many brilliant ways to waste time on the internet.

• In lieu of actual travel, this is fun. Hit the Go! button and jump to places you’ve likely never heard of.

• I just read Ross Gay’s delightful Book of Delights and this: “…take your head out of your ass and be glad.” It’s attributed to a crow, but I need this reminder daily. BE GLAD.

• Hello fall!