Friends, I am not a hoarder.
I’m certainly a collector: art photography journals, National Geographic magazines, 1/64-scale tractor models, empty insulin bottles. Lisa and I have jointly built quite a library of our own. I don’t think that’s a problem. That’s normal first-world behavior.
I mean, I might be a pack-rat. I might have kept things that l don’t actually need right now because I might need them one day in the future. And it’s true that I have actually (once or twice) used those things.
But it’s not like I can’t throw things away. Really. You know, I just want to make sure that there’s nothing earth-shatteringly important in that February edition of The New York Times sitting on the floor in my office. And, you know, if I do see something interesting in there that I
need plan hope to read, I’ll just clip it and put it in a box/folder/stack/pile. Obviously, I can’t throw that away.
Okay, so I hoard just a little bit, but I’ve lately been reevaluating my relationship with “stuff.” It just gets in the way and weighs down my mind a bit. In particular, I’m finding it harder to figure out what I want to do because of a glut of choices.
I’m trying to be more of a “Just In Time” kinda guy for what I bring in. “Do I need that information/book/whatever now? No? Then let’s just wait.”
Now, I just have to get rid of the stuff that I’ve got. I’m making progress on this front. I had a “Come to Jesus” moment earlier today, when I decided it was best to just throw stuff out if I ever want to get through the big tub of stuff that I pulled out of the closet.
I’ll update you when I’m farther along.