Hands up if this sounds familiar: while unpacking the last of 2011's Christmas gift bags, I was struck with the rather pathetic question of where I was going to put all this stuff. One can run through all the usual arguments about being ungrateful and insensitive - that there are more important issues than considering how the privileged should manage their glut of possessions. But this column isn't about how bad we should feel for owning stuff; it's about how incredibly draining it is to surround oneself with things that aren't necessary.
Many of the things we're coaxed into buying pervert the sense of efficiency or economy they promise.
Lezette Engelbrecht, online features editor, ITWeb
Fundamentally, humans' basic needs have remained the same: air, food, water, sleep, shelter and clothing. They may have taken on different forms, but those are generally the elements most central to our existence - and often those we spend the least on.
Take food. Often the key factor is speed and convenience. If we spend money, it's usually either because the item is pre-prepared, or because it's a restaurant meal. Investing in the quality of everyday food is just not high on the agenda for most. Never mind that it fuels our every function, many are more likely to splurge on supplements or pick-me-ups than simply eating properly.
The same goes for air and sleep - who has time to give these a passing thought when we're switching from mobile to iPod to laptop, phoning to get things fixed, or making mental lists to buy more stuff. Every year, companies dream up countless accessories we don't need, convince us of their necessity, and get us spending money on products we had never even conceived of until that point. This is how things like automatic cereal dispensers, vibrating exercise patches and customised cellphone covers clear the shelves.
This constant push to accumulate life debris is taking up already overcrowded physical and mental space, and making us pay for it, literally and figuratively. Ironically, many of the things we're coaxed into buying pervert the sense of efficiency or economy they promise. Some claim to save money by solving problems we didn't know we had, others by performing tasks we never do anyway. Usually, these items save about as much time as it takes ordering, assembling, and setting them up. Which is part of the problem: one can't just buy things end-of-story. They have to be stored, maintained, cleaned, updated... all the while stealing time that could have been spent on genuinely meaningful activities.
The point isn't to have everyone retreat into some form of Buddhist asceticism, merely to reassess the value of our clutter. Part of the problem is the shelf-life of goods, especially tech ones - 20 years ago you could buy a TV or sound system and not worry about it for decades. These days, your LCD screen doesn't last the season before manufacturers are touting something better and brighter, a technology that also renders your DVD player and media content obsolete. In the digital age, no item is long-term, which results in a constant stream of new gadgets - many of which are incredibly useful, but many of which are also a complete waste of time, money and mental energy.
Surf, then turf
It's not necessarily about fewer possessions, but about emphasising possessions with greater meaning. Futurist and author Bruce Sterling, who conceived the Viridian Design Movement, advocates spending money on the things you use every single day and cutting back on the rest: “What you need are things that you genuinely like. Things that you cherish, that enhance your existence in the world. The rest is dross.”
As Sterling points out, people often spend the most on the items they use the least - the special china, the cocktail dress, the collector's comic book. But sustainable living requires re-thinking our relationship to material goods in terms of things that occupy the bulk of our time and immediate physical space. Hence Sterling's call to get “radically improved everyday things... the normal, boring goods that don't seem luxurious or romantic: they are truly central”.
Sometimes the problem isn't so much the constant purchasing of new products, but the steady accumulation of items kept over years, because we can't let go, or think we'll need them later - shoes worn once, instruction manuals for old appliances, the stack of mouse pads jamming the drawers. Gather it, recycle and donate what you can, and then delete it from your physical and mental inventory, Sterling advises in the last Viridian Note.
He breaks it down into four categories: beautiful things, emotionally important things, tools that efficiently perform a useful function, and everything else. No prizes for guessing which group gets the boot first. Incidentally, the “everything else” category - the things we don't see or touch or think about at all really - is often the largest.
Document them, says Sterling, take their IDs and fingerprints, as it were, should you ever need to retrieve an item, and then get rid of the lot. Removing junk from your personal environment frees up energy and stops you “serving an unpaid role”. “It may belong to you, but it does not belong with you. You weren't born with it. You won't be buried with it. You are not its archivist or quartermaster.”
The other categories require a bit more thought, but often a simple exploration of why we hold onto them eases the decision of whether to keep or cut loose.
Life coach and author Martha Beck calls it “psychic value”. If you don't really, truly, capital-letters need or love an item, then it is not worth buying or having in your life. Spend what you have to on things that are essential (medical aid, life insurance) and then only on items that deeply satisfy.
It's not an easy philosophy, perhaps because it's so simple in a world run on complexity. But with every man and his dog continually punting stuff that promises to make us happier, worthier, and lovelier, it helps to have some kind of model for separating the valuable from the vapid. The alternative is a reality soberly captured by Chuck Palahniuk in the film Fight Club, wherein possessions are not only psychological substitutes, but hard taskmasters as well.
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