Thoreau's Letting Go

Our alpha cat Tiger keeps jumping onto the top of our hutch, then stepping onto my wife’s mirrored shelving that holds her collection of Wildflower angels, invariably knocking two or three to the floor, breaking two or three angel wings or heads or arms.

No matter how we scold him, he continues to do it. And my wife keeps super-gluing the broken angels back together again. That led me to think of all the little collectible things we’ve acquired over the years. Who will get them when we’re gone? Who will even want them when we’re gone? When Rosalie’s sister died, she left behind a number of really expensive crystal pieces. We took several and sister Kaye took several. And the rest went into the public auction of her goods, these crystal pieces probably going for two or three bucks apiece, maybe even much less than that. Someone got a really good deal. But when they pass on, someone else will get a really good deal on these pieces. And who will care? We spend our entire lives acquiring little collectible items, holding them, admiring them for a little while. And then we die.

Henry David Thoreau implored us to simplify our lives, to strip it down to the bare bones, to own only a few necessities. He comments on the New England farmer he sees trudging down the road with a farm on his back. No farm on Thoreau’s back, no little collectible angels sitting on his chest. The simple life in the mid-19th century would have been so much easier than our complex lives in the 21st century, and Thoreau’s “best government,” that which governs least, is long gone.

But back to the stuff in my life. There isn’t much that I’ll feel bad about losing to some auction giveaway. I don’t care if someone gets any of our Hallmark kitty collectibles for a song. Or the crystal paperweights. Or the books I’ve had for my entire adult life. Or the interesting bottles we keep on the shelf above our mirrored wall in the living room. Or all the letters from friends and relatives I’ve kept and stored in my computer for the last thirty years. Or the many many golf clubs out in the garage. Who needs any of that stuff? Certainly not me. And the older I get, the less I need what once seemed so important. Too bad it's taken me so long to get simple.