The Tyranny of Stuff
By: Lindsay Lonai Linegar
Tags: Mindfulness, Society, Lifestyle, Consumerism, Self

The Tyranny of Stuff

Lessons about baggage and healing

A few months ago, I picked up some of my stuff from mom’s house. She had been storing a few plastic tubs full of things at her place since — well — maybe since I first left home 20 years ago. Over the years, as I moved around, I would periodically go through the tubs, get rid of some things, then consolidate and repack the rest.

Those tubs are full of stuff I’ve collected since I was a kid. I’ve long said it’s difficult to let go because a lot of what I have is memorabilia. It’s mostly things like photo albums and yearbooks and awards and notes and meaningful t-shirts and old prom dresses and such. But there are also some household items, such as books I’ve collected over the years and East African decor.

When I returned to the United States in 2015, after a long stay in Africa, I remember going through my stuff again, and getting angry. I would pull something out of a tub and curse to myself. “Why the f*ck do I still have this?!” I would ask. I was completely overwhelmed by the sight of my things. And I was happy to pack most of it back up, move south to the beach, and let it continue sitting in Patient Mom’s Storage Unit.

When I returned to my hometown a few months ago, I finally got all my stuff together in one place. I rented a room with some housemates in a cute house downtown, and finally dragged all my things into my upstairs bedroom. The beautiful, chocolate hardwood floor is now covered with several tubs, and a bed.

I have once again started going through all my stuff. I’ve slowly been giving things away, throwing things out, and deciding what to keep. I can feel the things weighing on me, as they sit there. It’s clear I need to come to some sort of resolution.

Not long after I’d gotten all my stuff together in my room, I had an interesting thought. Mind you, I am a late-thirty-something woman, with about seven medium-sized tubs full of things (including clothes), a bed, and 10% of a Golf SportWagen — that is all the stuff I own. So, not much.

You could call me a minimalist, if you’d like. I suppose I am. You could say living in Africa changed me. It absolutely did. You could say living in Orange County changed me. It also did. You could say my faith in God changed my focus from material to immaterial “things”. All of those things did happen, in reverse chronological order.

All of those things happened, and now I’m the person who occasionally feels like burning all of her stuff. I would be satisfied to let wildflowers and trees and ocean and hills and birds be my decorations. An RV and/or a tiny house on a farm would do as well. Give me animals, land, daisies, sunshine, and the open road. But keep the rest of the things.

What is it about stuff? Why do we have such a strained relationship, me and things? That’s what I’ve been trying to determine. I don’t know the answers to these questions yet, but I know the thoughts I’ve had. Feelings, too.

I was driving somewhere about a month ago, and it occurred to me that perhaps my stuff is a metaphor. Every time I look at something in my room, I get transported to some other time and place. Could it be that my physical stuff represents my emotional stuff? Is the baggage in my room trying to tell me something about the baggage in my heart?

The other day, I sat on my bed surveying my stuff. I looked back and forth, making mental notes of all that was there. Maybe I could group things together based on geography, I thought. I could gather all my things from Africa together. And then I started crying. Burning everything became an even more attractive option in that moment.