A new book. Earrings.
Shirts. Shoes.
Each one came into my
house in a single bag and with a simple motion. It felt harmless, this slow
trickle of purchases and products. Every so often, I’d get a wild hare, open
the armoire door and toss little heaps on the floor of things worn once or
twice, the dollar signs adding up in my head. Then with a sigh, I’d forgive
myself. Load the clothes in boxes. And remind myself of the good in all this:
donating to those in need.
And that part is true.
Repurposing is a beautiful thing. Waste not, right?
But what about want not?
My husband lived in a
small flat in London early in his career. He had two roommates, no closet
and wore suits to work every day. The other night, as he neatly hung 12
dry-cleaned shirts among a dozen others, he turned to me and said, “You know,
in London, I used to be jealous of Chris.” I pictured his roommate and raised
an eyebrow, wondering where this was going.
“He had five shirts. One
for each day of the week. No more.”
To most, the American way
seems enviable. Twenty-four shirts. Choices. Abundance. But what we forget—in
that moment before the cash register cha-chings—is
that overabundance crowds more than our homes. It crowds our lives too.
When we surround ourselves
with too much, we block our line of sight to who we are. The first house built
on a mountain has a clear picture of the valley. The treetops. The wildflowers.
The sky. But build house upon house on every side, and, suddenly, the view is
entirely different. It is cluttered. Obscured.
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