Have You Seen My Dust Collection?

A large curio cabinet with glass walls stands in my living room. Inside it lie memories of years gone by. Each trinket is a trip. Each art figurine is a piece of time. Sculpted statues, things of historic beauty, stand silently, waiting to be admired anew and given purpose.

I collected trinkets and mementos all my life. I carefully selected each Lladro, Kachina doll, and handmade pottery piece. I think I collected things because keeping them was my way of having something that was mine, something that would not leave until I tired of them.

I used to have the items all over the house, decorating tables and alcoves at every turn. And somewhere along the way, I decided to place them all in a glass vault.

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As young people, we tend to want and collect things endlessly. Those little knick-knacks, trinkets, and bobbles pile up, and somewhere in your middle years, you reach a point where there is so much to concern yourself with that having a hundred little somethings that need attention becomes wearisome. Little things are collecting dust, and they need dusting, when you have far less time than you need to do the daily chores of life.

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I watch our son in that stage now. He is young and wants things. He buys them and adds to his collections. Computer servers, guitars, keyboards, climbing gear, and snowboards are piling up in his apartment. He is already thinking about buying his first home or, at the very least, getting a larger apartment to keep all his stuff. Do I tell him, explain to him, what he will learn in later years?

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All the things you collect in life will continue to add up and accumulate in one part of your life or another. It doesn’t have to be souvenirs. It can be kitchenware, shoes, and even books. I already see most of you shaking your heads in agreement about the book collection. Readers and writers collect books. Some of our libraries rival the Library of Congress. Billions of words bound between covers. It doesn’t matter what your go-to is. At some point, we all arrive at a crisis. We ask ourselves whether we really need to keep all this stuff.

At some point in your middle years, the way you look at things changes. That magnet you bought at the Grand Canyon, stuck to your fridge with fifty others, begins to wear on you. The clutter becomes a resounding gong you pass by every time you want a beverage. Then one day, you rip them off the refrigerator door, throw them in a box or drawer, and say you will find something to do with them later. But you never do. We don’t.

As you get older, you begin to think more clearly about what is necessary and what matters. You realize that the $1200 collection of pots and pans was a nice thing to have because it all matched, but you never consistently use more than one or two of them. You see that the $25 Teflon pan is the one you constantly reach for when making an egg. You become an empty nester and no longer have use for that 6-quart Dutch oven.

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When I became a parent, my little knick-knacks were stowed away for later years, when little curious fingers would not damage them. And then they sat in the dark. I could not part with them, of course, so I lugged them to every residence we had. Then, to add to the insanity, I bought a behemoth of a curio cabinet and was so proud of myself for placing all my bits of travel in it for display and to protect them from dust. Then we bought a house with an office and a library because I had a large book collection that I kept adding to.

Life continued. The child grew up and left home. Mom and Dad are now alone, like in the pre-kid era. But now we see we don’t need so much. We don’t need a kitchen with every cabinet stacked with pots and pans, and every set of glasses and dishes.

The library I had filled with wall-to-wall books I swore I wanted to read again was just white noise. I didn’t even see them anymore. They became thick wallpaper.

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When I embraced my newfound freedom in day-to-day parenting and sports, I began to write. I picked up my drawing pencils and paintbrushes, and those books meant something different to me. They were obstacles to my art supplies and to the published books featuring my work.

The curio cabinet in the traditional style we have completely moved away from looks like a sore thumb next to the leather furniture and glass tables. I can’t even remember the memories it was purchased to remind me of. I pass it every day when I throw open the curtains, and I think the same thing each time. What am I going to do with all of that?

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The simple answer was simple. Simplify. Not a trite use of words. The repetition reiterates the goal. Less instead of more. I started the journey. I took all but a few treasured books to the used bookstore, which gave me a credit toward more books. Yes, funny, I know, but who am I kidding? I am still going to buy more books. I am just going to be more selective, and when I am through with them, I will resell them for more credit toward more books. Win-win. Insane, but comforting.

Those shelves now hold art supplies, my small collection of books, and my sketchbooks filled with my art. My books are waiting for more friends to join them. (Insert smirk here)

My kitchen is now a simpler storage space for my cookware. I gave away all but a few pieces I know I use and will use for any small gathering we may have. It’s paper plates for the outdoor meals.

My curio, my curio. What dost thou with thee? I will eventually sell what my son doesn’t want for himself or his future family and call it a day. No more dusting.

I love the look, clean lines, and modern aesthetic now. It has a sense of quiet and peace, in an odd way. It’s white now that no kids are mucking up the furniture. And most of all, it is clutter-free.

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Some of you reading this are saying, "No, not me.” I am not parting with my things. But trust me, when the noise of life has built up long enough, you too will want to ditch the things that add noise to your life and get to the zen of minimalism. The only question is, when will you get there?

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#life #lifelessons #change #adapting #motivation #writing