I read a short story recently where one of the characters, an older woman, had a spare room where she kept much loved items that friends — who were downsizing or moving to nursing facilities — gave to her for safe keeping. Things they didn’t want falling into the hands of people who wouldn’t appreciate the specialness of these items. This woman had a room that was full of other people’s cabinets and collections and curios and china.,
While I’ve been decluttering, I’ve realized that I’ve become the keeper of the family “things.” Furniture, musical instruments, china, photographs, books. I don’t want to become the woman in the story with the room dedicated to polishing someone else’s keepsakes. This story gave me food for thought. What is worth keeping? I’ve already decided I want to clear out my excess stuff so people who come after me don’t have to make decisions about what to do with my things. But what do I do with the things I’ve accumulated that have meaning to me, but maybe not enough meaning to keep hauling them from one house to another.
Interesting how random things like this short story I stumbled upon will pop up at opportune moments.