For the last two months, I’ve been making a very concentrated, heartfelt effort to declutter and find my purpose. On the surface, it seems like decluttering is the purpose. I am constantly roving about our home with a critical eye, asking myself “Do I really need that? Can I give it away?” I’ve made at least seven trips to Goodwill in this span of time, and I have designated section in our living area for collecting items for the next trip.
The latest haul to Goodwill included a wool, double-breasted brown J.Crew pea coat that I hadn’t worn in at least a decade. It was vital part of my East Coast wardrobe, but it just doesn’t jibe with the SoCal weather. My most distinct and sentimental memory of it is wearing it on our first trip together, to San Francisco for my thirtieth birthday. I had already learned the hard way, eight years before that trip, that San Francisco is not part of Southern California, and that I’d better pack warm. There is a picture of us by some stretch of beach where I am wearing the pea coat and a page boy hat that belongs to my future husband. We had only been dating for four months at that point, but while we certainly weren’t talking about marriage, there was definitely love. And so, I had kept the pea coat all this time because it reminded me of that trip and the start of our adventures together, but there it was, stagnant in the closet of my daughter’s bedroom, while we continued to live our lives and grow as a family.
“It doesn’t fit anymore,” Ken observed as I recently tried it on. “Your shoulders are too broad now.”
What I’ve been learning lately, however, is that all our belongings exert a force on us. Sure, we need X amount to live — even if that X amount is different for each of us — but in truth, we have many times more than we need. The difference between what we have and what we need is clutter. We can broaden the definition of “what we need” to the things we use and love, but again, if we are honest with ourselves, how much do we have in excess of that new definition?
When it comes to sentimental items, what I am slowly coming to terms with that the love and the memories aren’t stored in the stuff itself. At best, it can represent a special person or a moment in time, but how much good does it do when it is stashed in a closet, in a box, or in a storage unit? I wouldn’t have counted the pea coat as a sentimental item, but there’s no other explanation for keeping a coat for ten years without any intention of wearing it. Why else would I hesitate to let it go?
What I have become fixated on, is the idea that clutter can keep us from realizing our potential, from finding our purpose. The force our belongings exert on us, while invisible, may be powerful enough to hold our attention and distract us from what might truly matter to us. For me, this could apply to sentimental items as well the more mundane, like the 8-pack of 150-ct floss picks that I purchased through Amazon, about three years worth, sitting in my closet. It might be absurd to think that these items, along with our packed storage unit, are somehow preventing me from finding my raison d’être, but considering that I have been struggling to find one for most of my life, I’m open to suggestions.
I’ll deal with the floss picks later, but for now I decided to pull out a second pea coat from my daughter’s closet. This time it’s a woven, single-breasted red Ann Taylor pea coat that I used as a dressier counterpart to the aforementioned brown one. The most important, and honestly, the only memory I have of wearing this coat is on the night that Ken proposed. There is a framed picture of us together, taken in front of Lincoln Center by a passerby just moments after it happened. The camera flash reflected off the snowflakes that had just begun to fall, and my face was flushed from the cold and crying happy tears. I removed the coat from its protective bag and hanger, and tried it on.
”You look so funny!” Vi exclaimed.
Indeed, if the brown pea coat had barely fit, then I positively channeled Chris Farley in Tommy Boy (“Fat guy in a little coat!”) as I donned the red coat over my pajamas. The coat belonged to a different time and, most clearly, to a different person — a stick-figure of a person that shopped at Ann Taylor, that got gussied up to go with her boyfriend to a fancy restaurant for a multi-course dinner with wine pairing, and then to Lincoln Center to watch a famous Italian opera. I slid my hands down the length of the coat and felt something in the right pocket. I pulled out two, individually wrapped macaroons. They were encased in clear cellophane sealed with a sticker that had the logo of Telepan Restaurant, where we had eaten at the night we got engaged. I marveled, not without gratitude, that the desiccated cookies were otherwise intact and had managed to not attract any vermin over the years.
Vi looked at me with wide eyes and hopeful wonder.
“Can I eat them?”
“No, Vi.”
”Are they expired?”
”Vi, they‘re at least 13 years old.”
Pause. “So, you mean to say, that they’re expired…?” Her face fell.
”Yes, Vi. They’re expired. And no, you can’t eat them.”
I snapped a picture of the macaroons before discarding them, and went to tell Ken, who was already in bed. He murmured in his half-sleep, “They’re at least 15 years old.” True, we had gotten engaged two years before we got married.
In truth, I don’t remember most of the details of that night. The date itself, what we ate, the opera we saw — none of it. What I am sure of is that I finished every drop of the wines poured during our fancy meal and the bourbon cocktail that preceded them, most likely a Boulevardier or a Manhattan. We walked to Lincoln Center from the restaurant, sat in our seats, and I promptly slept from the beginning of Act I until minutes before the end of Act III. I woke up, refreshed from a long and expensive nap, to see Ken’s amused face smiling at me. Then I watched the final moments of a splendid performance that I had zero percent chance of understanding or appreciating so late in the game.
The cold, crisp air was sobering as we filed out of the theater after the performance. I remember us lingering around the fountain, as it seemed that Ken had wanted to take pictures. Normally, this iconic fountain is cycling through its water show, and with Lincoln Center in the backdrop, it provides a quintessential scene of artsy sophistication in the most fascinating city in the world. (Not to mention, a scene from the original Ghostbusters was filmed there.) But the fountain was dark and quiet at the end of the night, and the lights of the Lincoln Center had also dimmed. The crowd had mostly dissipated while we remained curiously standing in the middle of the plaza. Then Ken seemed to want to retrieve something from the bag on his lap. Quick to help, I reached into the bag for him, oblivious to the fact that he had wanted to do it himself, when my fingers wrapped around the dimensions of a small box.
Of the entire night, this is what is etched in my heart. Thoughts of past and future collided into that one present, defining moment that would make official our commitment to each other. I’m not sure why it had taken me by surprise — we had shopped for engagement rings, after all — but it did. This is it, I thought to myself, tears welling up in surrender to the magic of the moment. So engulfed was I in a rush of emotions that I could barely make out what he was actually saying to me, but we would have the rest of our lives to figure it out together.
“Can I try it on?” Vi asked.
I removed the pea coat and handed it to her. She slid her arms in and shrugged it on. The pea coat swept the floor like a wedding train, dwarfing her nine year old frame.
“Oh no, no, definitely not,” she laughed, and immediately shrugged it off.
And with that, I folded the pea coat carefully for the last time and placed it in a bag designated for the next Goodwill drop-off. I felt like it had been worth it to save the coat until just now, when I could create a new memory with my daughter, about the time we found 15 year old, petrified macaroons in the pocket of a pea coat from a previous life. The love that had been present back then is still so very much alive, growing and evolving in complexity and depth.
While I am grateful that the pea coat served its purpose of reminding me how special that moment was, letting it go helps me to appreciate the person that I have become — a wife, a mother, sober and strong — and to create space for the unfolding of a beautifully unknown future.