One New Year’s Eve, I decided not to buy a single item of clothing for the whole year. Including underwear. Not that I’m a big shopper, or have a big wardrobe. It’s just that I looked at my clothes and felt, it’s enough. I have what I need. And guess what? I made it, by the threads of my silver mankini.
Another lesson was this: my ex-wife (it was the mankini that did it) forbade me to bring home anything that didn’t have a pre-designated ‘space.’ I learnt not to bring home varnished cherry tree trunks from the flea market when the lounge was full. “Where will I put it?” is a good question to ask before you buy anything.
And yet, our things are precious. From the biscuits in our cupboard to the car in the drive, we cherish them, look after them, pass them on. They often carry the texture of time, and become heirlooms. (Well, not the biscuits.)
My mother spent ten years making a quilt, which she gave me. I love it. I sleep under it every night. But it’s not mine, it belongs to the next person who will have it, if my house doesn’t burn down, or I’m negligent, which is always a risk.
I have a problem closing my gate. Sometimes I just forget. The other night, when it was time to lock up, I discovered my car boot open. Last time, I lost my spare wheel and jack, not cheap to replace. But this time was worse.
My son’s vintage bike was irreplaceable, my daughter’s custom-built bike was one of a kind. No sign of forced entry, because the skiving skiver who stole them simply skulked down the driveway, opened the car, and took them. Alas. I blamed myself, as I usually do.
You can’t take anything with you, they say about death, and material possessions. You have to let go of the stuff. It’s true. We’re living in a scrap economy, where anything of perceived value not bolted down is fair game. I’ve lost six bicycles so far, and it hurts. My first ever Peugeot racer, given to me by parents, was the first to go.
Some change takes time. The erosion of mountains, over millions of years, for example. Some change is sudden, fast and lethal. It’s how we react to it that determines who we are, and ultimately, our happiness, or not. The bikes were there one moment, gone the next.
At least they weren’t people. They were just things. But they were given by people, as acts of love, and that’s what makes them precious. The chasm they left has been filled with new bikes. I’m lucky that right now I can afford to replace them.
It’s not always the case, when you need stuff. They come from me, and seeing my son and daughter’s excitement, and gratitude, has been a great reminder. Life is short. Things outlast us. They move on, and so do we.
Image: Radiokafka / Shutterstock.com
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