Stuff

I was lying in my bed last night looking at the bookcase that takes up the entire wall opposite by bed. Every night from that vantage point, I see objects and books that mean something to me. Nothing goes in that bookcase unless it has personal meaning. Last night I wondered what will happen to these things when I die. Will they mean anything to anyone else? Will they have value simply because they meant something to me? Will they be kept? Will they be sold, given away or just plain thrown away?

Last night the answer that came back very clearly to me is that these objects are neutral. They have meaning only if I impart meaning to them. In and of themselves, they do not represent who I am. They do not represent a loss of me if they are no longer on my bookshelves. They do not represent a continuation of me if someone saves them as a keepsake. They are merely things. Stuff.

The catch is that we operate in a tangible world. If someone is gone, then holding onto a locket or a book or a photograph somehow makes his or her memory real to us. We don't trust ourselves to just treasure that person in our hearts or memories. So I get it, I really do. The things on my bookcase might bring comfort but they are not me. Just a piece of the greater puzzle of me.