A cupboard full of memories in jars

A rumination on how we become encumbered by stuff.

Photo by elinazz1v on Depositphotos

Hi there, if you’re new here, welcome to ‘Something More’. I’m Caroline Ferguson, therapist and mindset trainer. Usually I share mindset tips and techniques in my posts but over the next two weeks I’ll be driving 1300 miles and sleeping in 7 different beds (including a camper van in the wilds of Dartmoor on a creative adventure) so my next couple of Substack articles may be slightly ‘looser’ and more personal than usual. I didn’t plan this piece, it just fell out.
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This post started with a nail in my tyre.

I was on my way to a restaurant an hour away to have lunch with close friends, including one I hadn’t seen for ages. I was really looking forward to it. Two days later I was due to drive 400 miles south so this would be our only chance to catch up in person for many months.

Suddenly, ping! The tyre pressure warning light lit up my dashboard. Dammit! With a long drive looming, I sadly had to make my excuses and pull out of the lunch.

It took six calls to garages before I found one that could fit me in. The next morning, mechanic Frank brandished the three-inch nail he’d clawed out of my tyre.
“Do you want it?” he asked. “Some people like to hang on to these things.”
“No thanks,” I replied. “This nail and I are over.”

It was not ever thus, though.

In times past, I might well have saved the nail in an old jam jar and stashed it in the ‘stuff’ cupboard. As well as loads of tools and household paraphernalia, the cupboard held an assortment of items in jars and boxes; not just the usual old screws with blown heads, bits of string, random knobs, picture hooks and non-working pens, but also trophies of past celebrations, triumphs and disasters.

An old mayo jar, for example, held half a dozen Champagne corks with small coins pushed into slits in their tops. I’d written tiny legends in biro around the edges to remind future me of momentous past events:

“28th birthday – epic cake fight.”

“Nottingham – 12th July 2012.”

And, rather cryptically, “Best one yet – never forget this day.”

I’ve no idea what the last one was about, but I don’t need a Champagne cork to remind me what happened in Nottingham in 2012. Every heart-breaking minute is burned into me.

Why do so many of us hoard souvenirs of our past experiences?

Could we be holding on to these fragments from our younger days to provide emotional proof that we exist? Or satisfying a visceral need to mark the flow of sand through our life-timer as we watch the grains slip away?

I used to have something of an obsession with time but I’ve noticed that in the years since I found my something more and began consciously living on purpose, I rarely think about time in the old way any more. It’s such a relief not to be plagued by the recurrent ‘time running out’ dreams that used to leave me feeling anxious and desolate for days.

Back to stuff.

I never actually used to look at any of those old souvenirs after I’d put them away, nor did I reflect on the memories they represented. They simply took up space in cupboards and drawers and added to the clutter in my head.

Gradually I started to feel more and more weighed down by the sheer mass of stuff in my life – not just the memories housed in jars, but all of it. The pictures, crockery, mirrors and bedding. The garden tools and cracked terracotta pots in the garage. Crystal glasses cocooned in their boxes on top of a kitchen dresser crammed with yet more glasses. Crates of obsolete screenplay drafts and half-used notebooks. Wardrobes stuffed with clothes upon clothes upon more clothes.

It was oppressive.

I needed to escape from normal life for a while so I went to Bali on a trip that was part business training, part holiday. When I returned to the UK a month later, I walked into my house and knew instantly that it was no longer my home. I was done. A few weeks later I put it on the market.

It’s been four years since I sold up and embraced nomadic living.

It’s extraordinary how much crap one person can accumulate over 30-plus years of home-ownership. When I was packing up, I did take a brief look through all those old hoarded souvenirs but most held no significant emotional resonance any more. The majority went in the bin.

Since then I’ve given away most of my furniture and am gradually whittling down the number of packing crates still munching money in storage. It’s a relief to see it all go. I seem to have lost my sentimental attachment to things and, to be honest, could happily set fire to what’s left.

These days, as a seasoned nomad, I live perfectly well with what fits in my car. Perhaps living more mindfully in a fulfilling present has diminished my need to retain proof of the past.

Do you relate to this need to untether oneself?

Part of my sea glass collection.

I haven’t completely given up saving things in jars, though

Now I pick up fragments of frosted sea glass from beaches wherever I roam. The beauty of these glowing aqua, white, green and blue pebbles gladdens my eyes and heart.

When I eventually feel the urge to settle in one place, I intend to have as few belongings as possible, and only have around me things that are functional and satisfying. In one corner will sit a large jar of sea glass, with tiny lights wound through it. How lovely will that be?

Reminder: live group coaching at the end of the month

Don’t forget, paying members have access to mindset training sessions on the last Wednesday of each month. The next one is on Wednesday 26th June at 8pm UK time –I’ll be talking about the two cats and a dragon that live in your head. If you’re a free subscriber and would like to join these monthly Zoom sessions, click the subscribe button at the top of this email to upgrade.

What do you collect to remind you of past times? Do you ever feel a desire to shed your belongings? I’d love to hear about your experiences in the comments.

‘Til next time, take care,