The Clutter Gods and a Nice Big House

Last week I took a look at a house located close to my current residence. The idea was to see if it was worth buying, moving into and subsequently selling my present home. The house was sitting on a magnificent piece of property with a view that extended for miles. It was bigger than my present home and seemed to have it all. I considered the possibilities.The house was bigger than mine and would hold a lot of stuff. A lot of stuff that I can’t seem to find room for now.
I then went home, sat in my living room and started to think about what my home meant to me. It was not long before I came to the conclusion that the house that I presently call home was not only adequate but it was perfect. The view from my porch was comparable to the view at the home that I had visited and, although my home is smaller, I believe it is far more easily managed. Above all it is my home.
Home is home. I love my home. I feel good there. I like that I know where my stuff is and where it is not. I am OK that the refrigerator has a rubber seal missing and that the upstairs carpet is a little worn out. This is where I belong. I am now certain of that fact. So, when it comes to the purchase of a bigger house that will hold more stuff, my new motto is : LESS IS MORE!. Which brings me to my questions of the day.
When is enough, enough? When can we say that we have finally come to a juncture in our lives where “having stuff” and “getting things” no longer satisfies us. At what point does the idea of obtaining more “things” go sliding like a greased pig to the bottom of our list of priorities? When do we stop accumulating and start shedding?
I think that I know the answer. For me, the time is now. In a word: No mas! (two words, actually.)
I am maxed out. My home is stuffed to the gills. I own or have owned all of the “things” that I ever care to possess. It all belongs to me and is currently located in my basement. And the basement is my enemy.
I used to love my basement. Not now. Not any more! I am currently in a pitched battle with my basement. Frankly, the situation had degraded to the point where it is me or the basement. A fight to the finish. Mano a Mano. Of course this challenge to the basement is one that I have yet to follow through with. Why am I so afraid? Because I respect the basement. No, that’s not true. I fear the basement. The basement owns me and I know it. It knows how much I hate clutter and yet it sits there, full to the gun whales, laughing at me, mocking me.
Admittedly, it was not always this way. There was a time when I liked being down in the basement. It was warm in the winter and cool in the summer. It had boxes of memories and items from my past that you could find nowhere else. It had space. It had one additional benefit: my wife, bless her heart, had absolutely no interest in going down there. Don’t get me wrong, I love my wife dearly. But the basement was my mine. All mine. It was my “sanctuary”.
Then things changed. It happened slowly at first, as it usually does, with a request. “Honey, can we put these things from the store in the basement?” my wife asked. As the owner of a boutique my wife occasionally needs to store inventory at the house. I dutifully helped her out and placed four boxes of clothing in a nice neat stack in the corner of my sanctuary. “It’s not that bad”, I told myself.
Then the onslaught began in earnest. She said, “Honey, make it easy on yourself. Why not put all the Christmas decorations down in the basement. There is plenty of room”. Uh oh! I could feel my sanctuary slowly, insidiously becoming a dry storage facility. Things got worse. More stuff, less space. Now, I can no longer go down the stairs to my “sanctuary”. There isn’t room. I don’t mean I cannot be in my “sanctuary”. I mean I can’t even get down to my sanctuary. My sanctuary is home to every conceivable item on God’s green earth except me. It is not my “sanctuary” anymore. It is my basement. And my basement owns me.
The basement and all that is stored down there think I am a joke. They mock me each time I pass the door to the basement and laugh as I continuously run from the challenge of organizing it all. I have, quite simply, lost control.
New development: There is hope. Inroads have been made as I slowly, surreptitiously remove items from my basement. Small things at first. Larger things later. I am currently in negotiations with the “Clutter Gods” and there are encouraging signs of a settlement. It appears that I am even getting along better with my basement in hopes of it once again becoming my sanctuary. My basement no longer mocks me. It just giggles a little as I walk by.
So I guess there is a bit of a bright light for those who find themselves overwhelmed by the accumulation of life’s little purchases. I’ve found that I possess the intestinal fortitude to organize stuff, donate items, throw things out in my efforts to regain control of my home and “sanctuary”. It can be done. It takes time, courage, stamina, blood, sweat and tears. One must "endeavor to persevere".
Deep in the recesses of my mind, though, I hold tight to the idea that if all else fails I can always buy a bigger house.