Simplifying

I got this email from Pam yesterday and asked her if I could post it:

"Spent too many hours in the kitchen yesterday going through cabinets as if on an archeological dig. It is much improved, but only the tip of the iceberg, so to speak. Moments like this I'm grateful not to be living in a McMansion somewhere...or even a modest home larger than the one I occupy. I have too much stuff...really. Too many food items, too many books, too many pieces of paper that appear to be homeless. They need their own little tent city downtown somewhere out of my line of vision."

Several of my friends share this sentiment and are in the process of clearing out clothes they no longer wear or stuff that no longer meets the "useful or beautiful" criteria.  Charlotte read a book about simplifying (can't remember the title) that set off a tornado of clearing space in her closet and house.  Kate, too, is hauling boxes and bags out by the truckload.  Betty is watching episodes of Tiny Houses and yearning for one of her own.  I talk to people all the time who are divesting themselves of projects, books, clothes, furniture, and mental baggage, wanting to simplify.

Another friend, also named Linda, recently talked about how her work as a realtor puts her in touch with houses that are jammed pack with "stuff."  She said, "We imprison ourselves with things.  Life is so much bigger and we can find more time to experience the large if we don't tie ourselves down to tending to objects that have no meaning."   It was her birthday recently and she waved away the idea of material presents.  "I don't need any more tchotchkes," she said.

If the new year is an empty bowl, what will we put in it?  What will I take out of the over-filled bowl of days to make room for the new, the creative, the time I want to spend with people, just being?

I met a man yesterday (probably near-penniless) who said, when I asked him how he was doing, "I'm blessed to be alive, Sweetheart.  I'm having a great day." What he was doing with his great day was standing at the door of Bojangles, wishing everyone who entered, 'Merry Christmas!"   He wasn't asking for anything.

I'm imagining Pam's "little tent city downtown somewhere" where we could all put the things we no longer need or want, and hoping that someone who does will find them--and be as happy to have them as we once were.