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how to bless our clutter goodbye

14 Comments

Gluttony. Guilt. Gulp.

My gut reactions to the recent New York Times article on “The Way We Live: Drowning In Stuff.”

I actually wondered, for a fleeting second, whether the UCLA researchers had been secretly spying on our recent move. Because if there were one single emotion that dominated this life transition – beyond nostalgia at leaving our first home and excitement at settling into the new – it was a sinking sense of feeling overwhelmed at how much stuff we’ve collected over the years.

Boxes and boxes, tubs upon tubs, books we’ve never read, wedding gifts we’ve never used, Christmas decorations we hung once, children’s clothes they wore twice. All of it saved, stacked, squirreled away in corners of our old basement, now staring at us in our new living room.

I am utterly overwhelmed by how much we own.

We excel at making excuses why we need all this stuff. We live in a state with extreme seasonal swings, so we need clothing to outfit the family from winter’s -30 and summer’s 100+ degrees. My husband is handy and likes to fix things around the house, so we need a garage full of tools. We love to read and I love to write, so we need shelves and shelves of good books. We like to cook and have four hungry mouths to feed three times a day, so we need a kitchen full of plates and cups and pots and pans and appliances.

Need? I wonder.

As I spent hours over the past months packing and then unpacking every single possession I own, I often thought of a good friend who entered a convent last summer. She sold her house and almost everything she owned, and then entered her community with the clothes on her back, a few books, a handful of photographs. I remember talking to her while she was listing furniture on Craigslist and tagging items for a garage sale. It’s tough to get rid of stuff, she said. You realize how attached you are to possessions. But so many times during this move I secretly envied her, the simplicity of a cell without clutter, the freedom of a life without excess.

If you read about the study on how families in our consumer culture accumulate in abundance, maybe you’ll feel the same gut-punch that I did. Recognizing how my stress levels do sky-rocket when faced with clutter. Admitting that my family does overdo Christmas out of our guilt for living so far apart from each other. Realizing that I feel helpless to know how to drastically change my habits as a consumer.

I’m always attempting to manage the clutter. I keep a steady stream of bags flowing to Goodwill. I don’t go shopping for entertainment. I regularly weed through kids’ toys and books to pull out what they don’t use. I always stop myself before I wheel the cart into the checkout to  double-check that I actually need everything I’m about to buy.

But I still find myself in a house so chock full of stuff I barely know where to begin to make real change.

So whenever I read these kind of reports – that we’re drowning in our own abundance, that we’re overwhelmed by our own excess – my initial reaction is always one of guilt and complicity. It’s a first-world problem, and I’m just as swept up in it as my neighbors. But this time I glimpsed one glimmer of hope from the NYTimes piece, a toss-away comment by the lead researcher that “we don’t have rituals, mechanisms, for getting rid of stuff.”

Would it help me if I had a ritual to bless my clutter goodbye?

Ha! Good luck with that, Mama!

So I tried it. At first I felt foolish as I stood over the paper bags stacked by the door, some ready to run to Goodwill, others awaiting their fate on garbage day. Was I supposed to sprinkle the stuff with holy water, perfume it with incense?

But I decided to start by simply thanking God for the good that these possessions once brought me – for the miles I ran in those old sneakers, the meals I fed my babies in those bibs, the photos of dear friends I hung in those frames.

Then I held in blessing the next person who would read the book I never cracked, watch the DVD we never opened, eat from the bowls we rarely used.

And finally I asked for help to become a more careful consumer, to steward my resources wisely, to remember those who go without the basics of food and water and shelter while I have the luxury to worry about my abundance.

Surprisingly, something small did shift inside me. I turned my focus from possessions to people. I felt myself starting to release from the need to cling desperately to every little shred of paper and plastic that passes through my door. A moment’s pause in the midst of purging might be just what I need to break my addiction to materialism and remember how to appreciate material goods for their goodness. That’s a spiritual lesson I want to teach my children, so it’s got to start with me.

But as I blessed our clutter goodbye, I also remembered the most powerful truth about rituals: we have to do them over and over and over again to understand their meaning, to establish them as a life-giving habit. So I sighed, packed the bags into the car, and headed back upstairs with a garbage bag in my fist. Still so much to share, still so little I really need.

At least there’s a whole lot of clutter around me to help deepen my spiritual practice of learning to do with less.

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Reader Interactions

Comments

  1. HomemadeMother says

    11 July 2012 at 8:27 am

    Amen!!!!!

    Reply
  2. aschlatt says

    11 July 2012 at 8:59 am

    Great post! We have been in full purge mode since we moved to our current home. Our last move (almost two years ago) made such an impression on us, that we are still working to simplify. Though I wish we had a basement, living without one makes us examine more closely whether or not accumulating “extras” for some day is worth it. Do I really need a closet stuffed full of decorations? I have been inspired by this woman’s post on simplifying and have been trying to achieve a clean countertop for a while. I still need more simplifying to achieve this: http://moneysavingmom.com/2011/09/qa-tuesday-how-do-you-keep-your-kitchen-countertops-cleaned-off.html. Bryan also receives a daily reflection from this guy: http://www.becomingminimalist.com/ which has really helped us to purge! It is a worthy cause. I often think of the Missionaries of Charity who carry all of their possessions in one box! Wow! What would I pick?

    Reply
    • mothering spirit says

      11 July 2012 at 9:45 am

      “Living for someday” – I’m trapped in that mindset, too! Especially with clothes, as I’m in the years of pregnancy-post-partum-nursing. I save all sorts of sizes since I’m often in-between. But do I really need as much as I think? Definitely not. Thanks for the links – looking forward to checking them out!

      Reply
  3. Peg Conway says

    11 July 2012 at 8:59 am

    I so totally resonate with this post! I feel like the “stuff” just clings to us like dust or sand, and then it turns to stone, weighing us down. My husband and I cleaned out the garage last week and it was like an archeological dig into the past 9 years. Like you, I’m learning to be with it in a calmer spiritual place. I’ve come to regard the process as a “movement of the Spirit” — there’s a sense of energy from moving old stuff along and making space for the new.

    Reply
    • mothering spirit says

      11 July 2012 at 9:46 am

      Great metaphor, Peg! And an archeological dig indeed. Our garage overwhelms me as much (if not more) than the basement. Where to start – so I just keep piling. But there’s a call here, indeed. To let go of what we don’t need so we have space to embrace the grace we do.

      Reply
  4. Emily Chadwick says

    11 July 2012 at 9:32 am

    After cleaning out my grandparents’ house this past year this article really hits home. I had a hard time letting go of their stuff (and there was a LOT of it)…but I finally came to realize that it was just stuff. It was both depressing and freeing to see the lifetime accumulation of material things mean absolutely nothing in the end.

    Reply
    • mothering spirit says

      11 July 2012 at 9:47 am

      Well said, Emily. You reminded me of a moment of clarity I had while packing up our old kitchen a few months ago. I realized that every single thing in our house would someday end up in a landfill. Even the things we passed on to someone else would eventually, down the years, break or lose their meaning. So it’s all going back into the earth eventually. YIKES.

      Reply
  5. Lydia says

    11 July 2012 at 11:33 am

    What a wonderful, thoughtful piece you’ve done here! I often have the same feelings, although, like you, I keep a steady stream of “stuff” going to goodwill at all times. We live in a small house for our family size so I am constantly in a state of feeling overwhelmed by all the clutter. It is a constant battle for me. Thank you for writing this!

    Reply
  6. Thrift Store Mama says

    11 July 2012 at 7:29 pm

    I’ve written a lot about de-cluttering on my blog. I am a hoarder at heart, so I really have to be vigilant. Luckily I like an ordered home more than I like stuff. I also like my children to pick up them after themselves which is much easier when there is a designated place for everything.

    I limit my stuff by available space. If the designated are for toys/books/glassware is full, then I don’t buy more unless something else is leaving.

    Reply
  7. Mary Nilsen says

    12 July 2012 at 9:47 am

    I keep forwarding these wonderful essays to our family and friends. We all live under the tyranny of stuff. Having a ritual to bless it on its way sounds wonderful and helpful.

    Reply
    • mothering spirit says

      13 July 2012 at 9:17 am

      Thank you, Mary. Indeed, we all seem trapped by stuff – even when we know that accumulating won’t bring us happiness. We’re still stuck in the cycle. I wonder how ritual and blessing can help us let go, free our hands to embrace what really matters.

      Reply
  8. Lauren says

    13 July 2012 at 9:12 am

    Oh wow. I’ve not read this post yet because, well, it hits a little close to home.

    I like things. I come from a long line of women who collect things. Thimbles, books, cameras, sprinklers, Wee Forest Folk, porcelain boots, buttons–things. We treasure them and honor them.

    As I was discerning the monastery over the past year, I kept getting hung up on my stuff. I talked with the prioress about the things I wanted to bring with me. She said I couldn’t bring my own bed. “But,” I protested, “it was my grandmother’s when she was a girl. It has a story.”

    And there’s the hangup for me. It all has a story. I come by this naturally. Several years ago my mom and her partner bought new bedsheets. The ones they’d had were about ten years old. As they were making the bed with the new sheets, my mom said to her partner, “Think of all the nights we’ve spent in these sheets.” The accumulation of years spent together–morning conversations, love given, tears shed, restless nights–in those sheets that graced the bed.

    As I contemplate starting another blog, one of the things I’ve considered is writing about my things. Sharing stories about why my pint glasses mean something to me. Telling readers where my books come from and why I keep them. Explaining the trinkets on my shelves and the furniture in my home. If anything, it would at least provide an easy way to dive into stories. We shall see . . .

    What I love about this post, now that I’ve read it, is the idea of blessing things and giving thanks for their places in our lives. And anticipating how others will use them. What a grace-filled response to the purging.

    As always . . . thank you.

    Reply
    • mothering spirit says

      13 July 2012 at 9:21 am

      So the companion piece to this post that I haven’t yet finished is one that hits on precisely what you describe so eloquently – that stuff matters, too; that it isn’t all junk; that it can be beautiful and meaningful, full of stories and full of grace. This move has taught me that, too – that some of my possessions are deeply important to me. Perhaps what I’m searching for is wisdom to know the difference: how to honor what matters and stop accumulating the junk that doesn’t. I love what Benedict teaches about honoring the tools of the monastery as if they were the sacred vessels of the altar. The same truth holds for us at home. Material possessions aren’t bad, but we need a healthy attitude towards materiality.

      Reply
  9. Melissa says

    20 July 2012 at 6:28 am

    I somehow stumbled upon your blog and can relate to so much of what you are saying! We are in the midst of a move across the country with a toddler. We, too, said many good-byes, prayed for blessings upon those who would live in the home that we left behind, and are now carrying box after box to Goodwill. Thank you for introducing me to this ritual of saying good bye to excess. As I unpack more boxes today, I will begin this new tradition and pray that it helps to bring lasting change to my heart and home!

    Reply

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I’m Laura Kelly Fanucci. Mother, writer, wonderer. This space is where I explore mothering through writing. It’s where I celebrate how God shows up in the chaos of raising children. It’s where I love to build community with readers like you. Read More…

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thismessygrace

Mother, writer, wonderer.
Seeker of God in chaos & life with kids.
Author of Everyday Sacrament & Grieving Together.
Glimpses of grace & gratitude.

Instagram post 2197653351004688513_1468989992 Hope high. Expectations low.

This motto is what gets me through travel, holidays, church—basically 90% of life with kids.

Keep your hope high.
Keep your expectations low.

Because expectations are anticipation-gone-control-freak. Your picture of the perfect holiday. Your picture of the perfect family. Your desire to do anything 100% your way, unfettered by other people’s mess or needs or humanity.

Hope on the other hand? Spacious. Surprising. Sustaining.

Hope smoothes over minor disappointments and major disruptions. Hope lifts your eyes to a wider horizon where plans matters less than people. Hope is a balm to deepest suffering and a boost to daily slumps.

Call it a virtue, a practice, a gift. Whatever you do, start to claim it as your own. Because once you choose hope over expectations, you loosen your grip on everything else. Laughter shows up. Love, too.

If the food gets burned or the show starts late or the weather turns terrible or the kids melt down, you always have a choice—even in the chaos. You can set expectations gently aside and turn to hope instead.

Same for the harder turns through the holidays—the years when we want to wish away the cheer because we’re grieving or suffering or lost and everyone else’s (alleged) joy makes us feel even more alone. Hope reminds us that the surface is not the story and that now is not forever.

Expectations are our own creation. Hope is a higher calling—to lift our eyes up from our desires and plans to remember we are not in control.

So let your clenched fist of expectations unfurl this season. (However low you think your expectations are, sink them even further. To the basement. Trust me.) Then watch your own delight at discovering goodness that you never could have planned. 
Because hope reminds us of holy truth: life never had to be perfect to be good.
Instagram post 2196944524877817946_1468989992 Beauty from brokenness.

At the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport, there’s a mosaic tucked back in concourse F, hidden by the bathrooms. I notice it now because it’s the work of a kindred spirit.

A grieving mother.

By chance I read her story when the mosaic was installed. How her second child was stillborn and her world shattered and after months of wondering how on earth to create again, butterflies became a symbol of hope rising from ashes.

I remember her whenever I pass these restrooms, usually dragging a small child of my own behind me before a flight. Today I walked in with a pregnant belly, looking for all the world like a simple story: woman having baby.

My story is not simple. Neither is hers.

We are among you, the bereaved. Walking by you every day. Daring to keep going instead of giving up. Creating beauty from brokenness. 
You might miss it. We learn not to shout. But when we get space to share our stories, strange and sparkling beauty can be found.

Mary Shelley wrote her masterpiece Frankenstein while she was grieving the death of her baby. Prince had an infant son who lived only a few days. I collect these stories now—the artists who created out of their pain.

When something is shattered—a bone, a bowl, a dream—it can never be put back together in exactly the same way again. Cracks, jagged edges, trauma’s hard memory persists.

But an artist catches the glint of hope under the rubble and refuses to let destruction have the final word. Every creation is a mosaic, built from brokenness.

MSP Airport, gate F4. Check it out next time you’re here.

Thank you, @josielewisart 🦋
Instagram post 2195334718010341825_1468989992 You don’t have to apologize for staying in the slow lane.

Took two snowy hours creeping to the airport before dawn to remember this truth. Impatient trucks on my tail, angry red lights for miles.

Feel free to pass, as I fought off the urge of irritation at their too-close-for-comfort. I’m staying right here. Slow and safe.

Call it the Advent lane. The choice to slow down when the world speeds up.

Liturgical living isn’t about doing more, adding extras or achieving. It’s often about doing less. Living at a slower, sacred pace. Letting the world’s frenzy pass you by. Listening in the quiet for the still, small voice of God.

And here’s the secret you learn after years and years: it’s delicious, this discipline of living differently.

You gain time where others lose it: a full season of Christmas instead of one fleeting day. You feel time where others forget it: the weight of weeks before Easter. You notice how nature lives by the same cycles: waxing and waning, dying and rising.

Years ago our pastor preached about stopping at yellow lights as an Advent practice. One simple act, a few times a day, to remind you to wait.

Wait.

Slow down. Take a moment to breathe. Slip back into the living pace where you are no more important or urgent than anyone around you.

In a culture obsessed with success, speed, and endless upward mobility, it can seem crazy to take the slow lane—or the off ramp.

But you can stay here, slow and steady. Peace was never found by speeding up.
Instagram post 2192445717293184648_1468989992 “What if God were helpless?” Her question shook me.

We had sat together for an hour, wrestling with the biggest, hardest questions—suffering and death and grief and trust. But even from where she sat in her rocking chair, hair white with wisdom, eyes searching up at the ceiling for answers that don’t exist, her words shook me.

No, I wanted to leap to protest. God has to be Helper, not helpless. Powerful, not powerless.

Otherwise everything unravels, right? Otherwise what is solid ground? Otherwise who can I trust?

But I caught my own words. It’s Advent, after all. What we celebrate at Christmas is exactly this: God becoming helpless.

A newborn baby: nothing more helpless among us. Born into poverty. Vulnerable among animals. Away from his community. Unable to walk or talk or feed himself. Helplessness Incarnate.

And this was what God chose, the ultimate Power that set the stars spinning. Incarnation was the vulnerable, unexpected, scandalous, unbelievable way that Love took flesh and came to stumble in dirt beside us.

What if God were helpless?

What if it’s not a hypothetical question, but a theological paradox? What does it mean for my life?

It shakes me, as it should.

If you have understood, wrote Augustine, what you have understood is not God.

Advent is not a simple season, chocolate calendars and Christmas countdowns.

This is a time to remember that Jesus’ story is radical, upsetting every neat category and tidy expectation.

It would be easier if God stayed powerful: distant, removed, almighty. The shock is that Jesus becomes powerless, too: intimate, humble, among-us.

What if God were helpless? What would it mean for my life, my faith, my need for surety and solid foundation?

If God can be both—Helper and Helpless—what else might turn upside down? What grace might be waiting in the wreckage of our expectations?
Instagram post 2191564285632887396_1468989992 Anna Quindlen wrote that hidden within each of her grown children is the baby they once were, like the toy duck in the bathroom soap.

I feel the same way about infertility.

Yesterday I curved my sore back over the baby huddled inside, bent and swayed by the bathroom sink, seeking any relief. Nausea, sciatica, normal aches and pains—all of it daily burden, barely worth mentioning after all these years.

But I felt her rise up within me, the one who wanted Exactly This. All of This. Nothing But This.

She is the me inside me, the former and forever.

I see her in crowds, the one in ten walking brave each day through a world that flaunts what she wants (as the world does when we are wanting, filling our longing view with happy couples or pregnant bellies or warm homes or good jobs while we lust for the same). I carry her with me as I have carried each child, the ones whose hands I held and the ones I had to let go.

She taught me what it meant to crave control and to discover that I have none. She gave me the language of lament and the songs of sorrow.

I left her behind eleven years ago, on a cold winter morning like today, when a thin plastic test blurred to two lines for the first time.

I burst through the bathroom door as someone new, someone pregnant, someone’s mother.

I have never been the same.

But she is still me, and I am still her. Every day she prays me back to the place of all who are still waiting and weeping.

I could never call infertility a gift. But her companionship is.

When she whispers, it is louder than any stranger’s sneer, the judgement heaped upon four kids running ahead and a waddling mother trailing behind.

This, she reminds me.

You wanted exactly This.
Instagram post 2191077565846125357_1468989992 Advent is waiting to be discovered.

By those of us who have lived it for a lifetime. By those of us who have found it brand new.

Advent is quiet and calm when the world is anything but.

For those of us who delight in stillness and silence. For those of us who struggle to slow down.

Advent is the antidote we seek.

For those of us who crave radical challenge. For those of us who love ancient comfort.

Advent is never what we expect and always what we need.

The shortest season for the longest wait.

The perfect paradox for the God of surprises.

Advent is already the gift.

You can dip into this current any time, running strong and steady beneath the chaos of December above.

Any Advent moment will bring you peace and joy, which is already Love Incarnate, which is already Emmanuel, which is God among us.

A miracle. Don’t miss it.
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