In my time of transition I continue to ‘broadcast live’ some of my thoughts on my recent move to NY. Sitting shadowed by a tower of boxes, stuffed with the things I ‘own’, its a bit hard not to have some thoughts on that favorite old topic:
Rupa
I am surrounded by, swimming in, a sea of my stuff. I can look at each item and remember how badly I wanted it back when I bought it. My heart believed that that table/rug/lamp would solve my problems, fit perfectly in my space, make my home beautiful. That by extension, these items would make me a sort of person — the sort of person that values beauty, surrounds myself with it, cares enough to have a lovely home filled with lovely things. An adult, a non-slob, someone tasteful but unique. I wanted these things and I bought them. But the story isn’t over…
Now I have all this stuff, tables/rugs/lamps/clothes, in a new space where it doesn’t fit anymore. Where it is non-beauty, just clutter, part of the endless piles I need to sort through. In a town where even donating items involves work (I either need to get an Uber XL and carry it down, or I have to order a Salvation Army pick-up and wait all day for them to come). I saw all the benefit when I bought these things, but I ignored the burden. But (and we will cover this topic much more in a later log) the burden was always there, just waiting for its moment to come to the fore, to rear its ugly head.
Most of the time, I think these items serve me — after all, who buys something thinking,”I wanna pay good money to be this table/rug/lamp/dress/etc.’s bitch?” But here, amidst the stress and fall-out of a cross country move, it is very very clear, I am subject to these items (actually, to my desire for them)–finding ways to salvage some stuff for the new space, finding storage or haul-away for others. The stubbed toes, the aching back, the stress of inadequate closet space. And then there is the dependency; how can I live without all 4 feather pillow that I’m used to, even though my new “bedroom” is barely big enough to fit a bed.
And did these items even do what I believed they would do? Did they fulfill the ‘promise’ I imagined they made to me? Sure, for a bit there was convenience, beauty to my eye. But did it make me that tasteful, non-slob, adult? Did it make me fashionable, and pulled together, and worthy of love, and adoration, and even a bit of envy? How can I say these objects succeed in making me all that awesome stuff, when now they make me look like a hoarder with a cramped space, when the effort to just dispose of them is making me haggard and stressed. I promise my situation is utterly unenviable.
At the end of the day, my desires changed. When I wanted that table/lamp/rug my desire felt so solid, so fixed, so permanent, so real. But now, I want it gone. I always believed, I want, I get, I am satisfied, game over. But in truth, this is a game I can never ever win. Lasting fulfillment will always evade me. How can I win when my wants are so capricious, when the desirable can become undesirable with even the most minor changes? When my once beloved furniture oppresses me.