When Downsizing Becomes Personal

A friend of mine, in her mid-70s, is going through her possessions, like everyone else our age. But it’s not like getting rid of clothes, books or knick-knacks. These are very personal—letters from her partner, who died a few years ago; and her father’s journal, with stories about Julie’s growing up. As she describes it, it’s a bittersweet journey–stories of a lifetime but one that’s long gone and knowing we have little time left.

The first stage of getting rid of our stuff is maybe the easiest: dishes we don’t need; paintings we bought in our youth, which no longer mean anything to us; books we won’t read again; and exercise equipment that demands too much wind power and takes up too much space.

But the next stage might be the most difficult: liberating ourselves of items that have emotional meaning—and having the time to think about their impact on us. I’ve seen older friends who were caught unaware, who had to move suddenly out of their homes and ended up throwing much into the dumpster, with no time to think about it. I envy them.

It’s painful to think that our heartfelt letters, beloved paintings, or treasured books will end up in a garbage bin. When my mom, in the last years of her life, was ridding herself of clothes, she couldn’t imagine donating her beautiful wedding dress to a thrift shop. So instead she gave it to her granddaughter, with the hope that she would wear it when she got married. But the dress is outdated, not something a young woman would wear now. I don’t know what my niece did with it, and I don’t have the heart to ask.

One friend, in his late 80s, has photographs he bought that were taken by Enos Mills, who is most responsible for the preservation of what is now Rocky Mountain National Park. Joseph bought them decades ago, when they were cheap and people weren’t aware of Mills’ importance.  Surely these photographs are worth something now—Mills’ books have gone up in value–but it’s not their monetary value Joseph is concerned about. These black-and white-photos show a world long gone—before resorts and car traffic took over the landscape—that few people would value, even those who might be willing to pay a high price for them. If he can’t find an appreciative buyer for them, someone who feels the same way as he does, Joseph will throw them away. It’s too painful for him to think about the photographs ending up in someone’s hands who doesn’t share the same views that he does.  

I have several bound copies of novels I wrote when I was younger (and before computers). They will never get published, nor am I sure I would even want that, at this point. Yet I can’t quite bring myself to toss them-–I put so much effort into them. They are a piece of myself and getting rid of them feels like getting rid of a younger version of me. Should I close the door on that person? But what good are these failed novels now?

When my parents died, I inherited their photos, mostly slides that my father took of all the touch stones of family life: births, graduations and marriages, along with the simpler pleasures: winter sledding, summer swimming, bicycle rides, raking leaves in fall. I’m trying to get the slides digitized as fast as I can, so I can pass them on to my brothers and sisters before I die—even if they’re not interested. Maybe my nieces and nephews might become curious, after raising families and pursuing their careers, about their ancestors–where they came from and what they were like.

But many older people, including Joseph, have no children or siblings. There is no one to appreciate or love what he loves. So his precious books and pictures will disappear when he does.     

At this stage of life, it’s more than decluttering. It’s admitting that we’re in the final stage of our life, and we need to prepare for it. It takes a lot of courage to admit that, to say good-bye, to let go of what we once were.

How do we get rid of the pain of getting rid of our past lives? Perhaps we can rejoice that our lives have become simplified, so we don’t have to paw through old documents trying to find the one we need; or get rid of most of our knick-knacks so we can see more clearly and appreciate what remains, because it’s not buried among everything else.  Maybe now we have more time to do what we love—whether it’s bird watching, spending more time with family and friends or reading all those books we’ve collected over decades.

There’s a peace that comes when we accept that most of our life is gone, and we need to move on. But it’s not easy.