Hoarding, Minimalism and The Happy Middle
One of my best friends from college once told a story about the first time she tried to make bread. She assembled all the necessary tools and ingredients, mixed it up, and placed it in a bowl. Upon returning a couple hours later, she found that the yeast had risen—the expected, and desired outcome, except for the fact that it had exceeded its potential. She found that it had surpassed the bowl, crept down the sides, onto the table, spilling out in all its yeasty glory. It was, she noted, completely out of control—a mutation of something that, after the proper kneading and baking, might have resembled a simple loaf of bread.
I don’t remember how that story turned out. I have no idea if she was able to salvage any bread from that project. I can’t say whether my friend ever learned how to make bread properly. All I remember is that it was a funny story. And it’s significant now only because it popped into my mind after I ran across a compelling quote about excess in Beth Moore’s study of the book of James:
“Use it or abuse it. Several sources suggested that the sin of hoarding is more than just having. It’s having without using. The wickedness accelerates in the waste. In part, hoarding means withholding what we don’t even use from others who’d treasure it.”
Most of us became familiar with the popular connotation of the term hoarding via these t.v. shows that exploit people with real problems, those for whom (presumably) hoarding is a coping mechanism for some unnamed psychological conflict. Usually, these programs depict the most wretched, dismal environments imaginable—places that have been literally deemed unhealthy and unlivable. But what about those who hoard possessions and wealth?
I hear this phrase constantly: We have so much. (Not everyone, of course—to assume so would be ignorant). But we are blessed with much. Often, we have too much. So much that it overflows. It overflows and we don’t know what to do with it. Use it? Cram it in a container somewhere? Toss it and start over? Give it to someone who might need it? Where do we begin?
I’m not a big pet peeve person, but I do have one that’s relevant here: Drawers. I feel that no matter how much I clean out, organize, or get rid of, somehow those drawers keep getting filled. Imagine a house in some mythical place, where there is always an empty drawer, somewhere to stick that thing that’s always in your way—those dozens of things that accost you every day. I think having one, perfectly empty drawer would be my idea of heaven.
My drawers are crammed full. I can barely shut some of them. I’d venture to say that I don’t need 50% of what’s in them. But yet, I keep filling them up. Why?
I was recently called to help my brother with a family matter involving the estate of my aunt, who was moved into a nursing home last year. Financial and legal red tape was forcing a liquidation of everything she owned, and the family came in to start the laborious process of sifting through years of accumulated possessions. After mere minutes in that house, it was apparent that there was not an empty drawer in sight.
Indeed, we were dealing with…dare I say it? It bordered on hoarding.
I think all of us knew my aunt, in her whippier days, enjoyed her things. She collected teacups and vintage glassware, trinkets and knick knacks—things that a lot of people collect. But none of us were truly prepared for what we discovered there. As we delved deeper, we found, for example, entire drawerfuls of fancy paper napkins, placemats and plates, still in the packages, an army of lipsticks, perfumes, and all manner of hairsprays, lotions and concoctions. Enough towels (mostly unused) that, when stacked, covered an entire full size bed, two foot high. Rugs and sheets and blankets—should I mention that there were twelve fleece throws—yes twelve—brand new, still in the package? That there were upwards of two dozen unworn designer t-shirts, hanging in her closet (among scores of others articles of clothing)? Are you ready for the ultimate OMG moment? Some of the t-shirts were not only duplicate, but triplicate, in color and style. In other words, she had, in some cases, three of the same shirt? Boxes of brand new shoes that had never seen pavement. For what?
I am blown away by the multitude of beautiful, wonderful things in life. The new shoes, the sweet smelling perfumes, the precious heirlooms that sit in china cabinets. They are wonderful to have—to have the means to acquire. But I pray the Lord would reign not just over my inner life, but my outer life in the same measure.
I remember getting ready to move once when I was about thirty. At the time, my life was uncertain. My first husband and I had divorced. It wasn’t clear what I’d be doing, or where I’d be in the next few years. But, I’d gotten a decent job, and I was moving. A good friend of mine told me, in all his somewhat Zen inspired wisdom that it was best not to acquire things you don’t immediately need, because you will just have to lug them around with you. And isn’t it infinitely better—if you are on the move—to not be burdened down by things?
Oh yes, it is. I moved five times in five years. I know all about packing dozens of heavy college textbooks into boxes and lugging them up and down stairs. But, yet, I did it.
My mother is my aunt’s (her sister) polar opposite when it comes to things. She has made it her personal mission, I’m convinced, to create the most minimalist environment possible in her immediate space. I figured out early on (around the time I left for college) that I better take anything I might want with me, because the next time I went home, it might not be there. My mother got rid of everything, as soon as it wasn’t needed any more. I have no idea what happened to my roller skates. My Barbies. What the heck happened to my baton? I want to know these things, but it doesn’t matter now. The reality that my mother was the anti-hoarder settled in around the time she got rid of all the family pictures. But, that’s another story.
The point? I guess it goes back to “Use it or Abuse It.” And, I suppose, in my mother’s case: If you’re not using it, ignore the possibility that someone in your immediate circle might want it and get rid of it anyway. See, there are extremes in both hoarding and minimalism. Lord, I hope I am somewhere in the happy middle.
A happy middle, where I can put just the right amount of yeast in the mix. A happy middle where I have enough bread for dinner, and a few extra to fill a small section of my freezer. I can’t say that I’m necessarily low maintenance, that I don’t ask for much. That would be self-deceptive. Of course I do. We all do. But I hope that I can recognize when the dough—either by rich blessing, or miscalculation–has overflowed.
