Minimalism, which has been in the news for the last decade, is relatively new to me. I've been more of a more is more kinda gal.
I like upholstering against the inevitable with stuff, and tittered politely when an acerbic old neighbor of mine in Pittsburgh used to say about the futility of possessions, "I've never seen hearse pulling a U-Haul. Hey, Elizabeth, want a lemon poppyseed cookie?"
But this is the year of deaccessioning. I want to focus on legacy. In a study published last year titled "Life at Home in the Twenty-First Century," researchers at U.C.L.A. observed 32 middle-class Los Angeles families and found that all of the mothers’ stress hormones spiked during the time they spent dealing with their belongings.
What am I teaching my children (and doing to my telomeres) if I have a a ton of spatulas (okay, I don't literally have a ton, I have four) and Dutch ovens (three), and lighted makeup mirrors (two), but no spine? No guts, no kishkes.
I stand on the Pergo wood flooring of the house I rent on the campus of the private school where Husb. is a biology teacher, but what do I stand for? A mini chopper, perfect only for cilantro?
I have accumulated, like the accretions of the shell of a mollusk, a lot of things. But that's not the same as wisdom.