The consequences of Sandy's visit are still unfolding for many families
while others are struggling to resume some sort of normalcy as power and
services are restored.
When it comes to getting and staying
organized, being able to tell the difference between urgent and
important is essential. In a crisis, the distinction between urgent and
important disappears.
We get to see how useful some material
things are, while witnessing that some of the things that heal us the
quickest and best aren't physical at all. We are reminded that everyone
seeks safety, warmth and a dry place to rest and how fragile and
temporary everything beyond that is.
While I am an optimist, I
would never insult anyone by suggesting they simply "turn that frown
upside down" or "look for the silver lining" as they sort through a
lifetime's worth of belongings in search of something salvageable. In
those moments, hope may be the last thing someone can find.
Not the least because their possessions are literally beyond their reach, swept down the block or out to sea.
For
others, the inevitable grief and loss may not be accessible yet, as
they struggle to find warm, dry shelter while storm-shocked.
We
clearly have attachments to stuff and making light of those attachments
or minimizing them or worse, shaming someone for having them seems
pointless and even heartless when they're faced with this degree of
disruption.
Every one of us can determine what
appropriate sentimentality looks like for themselves. And what
one chooses is in some ways less important than actually making
considered choices, since there is no absolute right answer of what
"enough" is for anyone.
Learning how to be consistently
deliberate rather than reacting, and how to achieve clarity instead of
remaining willfully vague or evasive, are fundamental to dispatching
historic accumulation. This is even more necessary when triaging your
way through damaged goods.
So for those of us dealing with
the loss of shelter, there will be plenty of time to address the
additional loss of sentimental objects, heirlooms and other touchstones
of memory when basic needs have been taken care of.
When that time does come, it'll be important to consider what did survive the storm--namely oneself.
For
the rest of us, whose homes and offices are intact but may be dealing
with damage to our belongings, this is where optimism proves useful.
Most
of us know of someone who has survived a fire, flood or other natural
disaster, but their things did not. Many of these people talk about the
tremendous sense of freedom they experienced on the other side of their
initial grief and loss.
I've heard them describe that, while
they could not conceive of wiping the slate clean themselves, having
survived the wiping, they now feel liberated and unburdened by no longer
possessing all the stuff that represented their pasts.
This isn't true for everyone, and even for some that it is true for, occasional pangs of sadness are not uncommon.
But
sadness or not, there is something valuable to learn from these
experiences that could provide comfort and encouragement for us all.
Story
is a powerful agent in each of our lives. Story is how we learn about
our families, the world beyond our doors, and the strangers who become
our intimate friends and companions. Story creates the context for every
encounter, good or bad, happy or sad.
And story is what binds us
to every object in our lives--whether that story is about function or
form, comfort, convenience or beauty.
Story is what tells you
to keep your grandmother's china even if you hate the pattern and would
never use it. Story is what turns a casual encounter into comedy or
tragedy.
Clearly, Sandy's appearance last month isn't a story,
although how we recount experiencing Sandy each day is most definitely a
story.
So imagine if the story of Sandy and your belongings shifted from one of regret and longing to one of acceptance?
There are only two words but a huge distance between "stuff happens" and "stuff happens to me."
Without me in the equation, disappointment and loss can be felt without getting lost in taking the cause personally.
From that point of view, I can grasp that Sandy didn't come looking for me in particular.
When
we take things personally, especially around stuff, it becomes that
much harder to view damaged belongings and not get trapped inside two
stories at once.
The first story is the story of the object
itself--where it came from, how it came to be in my possession and what
it means or represents. The second story is a new story of the thing's
untimely departure or destruction.
Recognizing the stories we
tell ourselves and others about our belongings is the first step in
being able to separate ourselves from them, whether that separation was
initiated with or without our consent.
It may be simplistic
to point it out, but here it is: your grandmother is not a teacup. And
we do a disservice to the memory of her when we try to reduce that
memory down into a series of objects that inevitably will get lost,
broken or otherwise fade away.
Not to mention how difficult it is to contain a lifetime's worth of memories in a single teacup.
Better
to make a cup of tea and tell someone about your grandmother's
significance in your life. Bake one of her favorite recipes and share
that with your neighbor down the hall or round the corner.
The
whole point of these touchstones is to keep the memory of someone
alive--it's useful to recognize how challenging that can be when they
are tied up in something inanimate.
So for today, instead of
feeling bad about the irreparable, damaged quilt or mourning the loss of
the family photos, bring those photos to life for someone who never saw
the originals. Gather friends together and begin making new memories.
If
everything is a story, perhaps today is the day you write a different
story with a happier, or at least a less tragic ending--since the truth
is that you've survived and the story isn't over.
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