The Necessary Migration of Stuff – by Teague Hartford

Vivid enough?

I have used this story countless times since as a teacher, as it so perfectly reveals the relationship between grasping and disease. I want to note that if we look around in the world, we can see that we are the only species that gathers in deadly proportions. Although many species gather in anticipation of winter or as a facet of nesting, and some such as Ravens are known to gather bright objects, none gather to an excess that can alter their health or the health of other species, let alone the planet.

Living in a capitalistic system, which has become a corporate/media driven society, many of us have come to believe that gathering stuff is what life is all about. The squirrels must think us nuts. Certainly, the indigenous peoples everywhere still living close to Mother Earth know we’re raving mad; they’ve been watching horrified since white folks moved in and began to defile everything we couldn’t own, as well as what we claimed to own. But that’s another story. This, this is a story about the necessary migration of stuff.

Think about it. Think socks, eyeglasses, coffee mugs – interestingly all items that are small enough to hitchhike fairly readily and certainly do. But even larger stuff. Ever sell a car only to discover it years later in another part of town? Or country? Stuff migrates. And we can either be a part of this process, or we can get in the way. We can share and give, and gather the less tangible benefits, or we can gather stuff, identify with things, hold on for dear life. And the rot will indeed set in. Guarandamnteed every time.

Look around. And I’m not talking about looking any further than our own houses, our closets or cabinets. Mira.

I go so far as to argue that “stuff” actually needs to migrate, to move about, be redesigned, redeveloped, reused, recycled if you will. It’s the nature of stuff – to be transformed, reimagined, pliable in our hands, not held to our hearts as a be-all that certainly doesn’t end well. Think about your most favourite things – not unlike the old Sound of Music melody I’d bet. Kitten whiskers and all. Most of our favourite things aren’t actually things at all – they’re moments, delicious or electric, even life-altering events from our own little lives we keep close within our minds and hearts. But it isn’t all kitten whiskers in pajama songs; of course there are the items which do gain an almost otherworldly aura. The wilted stuffed critter once held by a child who died far too young, or the one remaining tea cup from great gramma’s china set, the old medicine pouch, or the 35-year old drawing of the universe envisioned by a three-year-old, now 37, that still migrates from fridge front to fridge front, torn edges and dimming vibrancy. There are things that carry our love, our precious moments, and the people who comprise our most intimate landscapes. There are these. Things imbued with and carrying vast chunks of our hearts. But how many of these are there really? I’d bet our most precious items fit into a small box, or less.

And then there is all this other stuff. The stuff we hold fast to “for fear”, as me mum used to say. Me mum was a product of the depression era, wwii, and then a life of no, not ever having enough. And so she and my father and many of their people held fast to many things that had gone past their prime long ago, including milk and meat.

But we all do this, we all do. Somewhere, we have a stash of something. The extra lumber from building the shed, the old camping gear shoved into plastic bags, the myriad jars of spices with cruddy lids befuddled way in the back of the drawer, the woodworking tools we got from a yard sale thirty years ago, the half bags of seeds from eight years ago, the old lidless tupperwear, the torn lampshade we’re going to fix someday, the case of oil to a car long ago sold. We actually pay monthly fees to store this stuff, or perhaps even build an addition onto our home so we have enough room for it all.

If we ever stopped and looked, opened our doors and drawers and looked, and then, objectively reviewed media messaging, I’d bet dollars to donuts we’d feel terribly duped. After all, we are simply being good citizens aren’t we? We are keeping the economy zooming, we proclaim as we run amuck buying up the shiny new stuff we’re told we absolutely must have, need to have, everyone has, and we will die alone without it. We assiduously purchase what we don’t need with money we don’t even have. But we must have more, and we must store it, house it, clean it, protect it. Defend it.

Can someone please tell me when we became servants to stuff? And why we believe that stuff is more precious than we are? What about our clarity, our ability to share, our integrity, our dignity even?  What about our attention to others, our attention to our communities? What exactly are we replacing with all this stuff? What void are we madly trying to fill? And is there, in fact, a void? Or are we simply a-voiding a deeper reality? One that can’t be bought or sold or stored? And needs no defense.

If stuff is really so precious and valuable to us, why are we so relieved, joyous and invigorated even, when for whatever reason that veil falls away and we sit on the hillside with a friend sipping tea and listening to the wind, knowing in that timeless breeze that this, this right here and now, this is real? And why don’t we believe we have the power to live more truly to ourselves, less encumbered, less burdened by stuff? Why do we live these lies we’ve been sold? And when will we stop gathering dead albatrosses about our necks as though they are valuable merchandise that complete us? When will we all see we’ve each and all become like ever so many little emperor’s in our new clothes? When?

Peace.

Teague Hartford

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