Last weekend at my college reunion, when I settled into the cinderblock room for a couple of days, I looked around and thought Wow. I lived in this small space for four years?! I could never live in a small space like this again! What would I do with all my stuff? Furniture, cookware, all sorts of stuff. Twenty-five years worth of stuff.
Sometimes I feel like my life is an exercise in moving stuff. Every day I move stuff. From the grocery store to the car, and then into the house. Garbage, another kind of stuff, comes out of my house and into the trash. Sometimes stuff comes inside in bags, then goes out to the car gift wrapped, and then into someone else’s house. I can’t remember the last time I walked in the house with nothing; even if I don’t have purchases coming in with me, there is always a heavy tote bag or purse that comes with me…full of stuff. Stuff that I apparently have decided I should never be without: baby wipes (better than a Tide stick), lipstick in multiple shades, a couple of notebooks, some expired coupons. I go out to the pool with stuff; I come back with the same stuff.
Stuff, stuff, stuff.
More than enough.