DO NOT PASS GO, DO NOT COLLECT $200

Life really is like Monopoly: You win by acquiring as much money and possessions as possible, but at the end, it all goes back in the box.  Or your flight is cancelled. It wasn’t the worst thing that could happen, considering we were sitting at plus 25 and Calgary was shivering in minus 25. After two delays at the airport and running out of beer money, we now had to wait for instructions. Like picking up a gainful COMMUNITY CHEST card, it helped to assemble a tribe. Now the most anxious of us could relax, the most organized could lead, and the quickest of us could hold the elevator doors open.

I have to get past GO and collect my 200 bucks. Finally getting to our chosen hotel, we were not so politely dismayed to learn that they had no knowledge of our Monopoly money – in other words, no little red hotel or meal tokens recognized. Were we going to get the BOOT?

After numerous failed attempts with technology, the hotel graciously offered to honour the WestJet price and sell us each a room. So disposable toothbrush in hand, set and organized for our early morning flight, we realized that we neglected to check if there was a bar in the hotel.Is there any mercy?

But sometimes, JAIL is the best place to be.

In Monopoly, if you go to JAIL at the beginning of the game, you want to immediately pay the 50 bucks so you can get out on your next turn. You need to be buying property and collecting your $200, not contemplating prison tattoos and whether or not you can turn your stay into a Netflix series. But once there are monopolies on the board, sometimes JAIL is the best place you can be because while you’re sitting pretty (in a warm hotel room), your opponent is still out there hopefully landing on your properties for which you can still collect rent, or flying in a huge snowstorm that may end up landing in Whitehorse, where it is even colder. There are people, like in playing Monopoly, who wait for things to happen. They only want to buy a certain PROPERTY and nothing else interests them. At the beginning of the game they are the richest because they don’t spend money. Now in Monopoly, whoever is not investing remains in the same place instead of going forward. In other words, in the airport drinking overpriced gin tonics and eating bar-b-que chips tasting like sawdust soaked in cherry Kool-Aid. Like the woman standing zombiefied staring up at the departure screen, or the man with a face that looked like it had been clamped by two sliding doors staring lifelessly into his empty coffee cup, or two people oblivious to the drama unfolding droning on about some sports team they worshiped, some consulting the oracle of their iPhone with a certain anguished diligence, and others milling around like empty bottles waiting for collection.

FREE PARKINGIn the middle of all the action, sometimes it’s not so bad to go to JAIL. If you start to look at the benefits, you can begin to enjoy and appreciate your circumstances. It just takes patience and a lot of snacks. It can also be time to do some deep thinking, like how to approach civilization without your hair brushed. So at the crack of dawn, sans coffee, we stumbled aboard the first of many various and sundry transports back to the Atlanta airport. The drive from the first drop off to our gate was so long, I swear the driver missed a turn and I was back in South Carolina.

GAME CHANGER In life, we have to fly frequently in order to learn and move forward. We can’t play it safe and have it easy all the time. The more we experience life as an unapologetic voyeur, and the more CHANCES we take, the more we learn. We can walk away from the game at any time, but there’s a big wide world to explore we may have forgotten existed while we were fixated on every role of the dice.  Most of us are free to move, explore, learn, thrive…to get up from the board and change things, but often we don’t know it, losing future wealth. Sometimes a roll of the dice puts us on an unscheduled flight and we have to wait while the scheduled move past us. And sometimes all sorts of things have to be lined up until we can move again, like SUITCASES, ramps and ground workers. All we can do now is patiently count our accruing memories and fill out the paperwork.

Darling, it may not seem that way to you now, but there is an outside chance you will not live forever. You probably won’t spend all of your money, but it’s guaranteed you will spend all of your time. So collect your $200, but every so often, wait it out in JAIL.

Oh how I value the sanctity and sagacity of a small routine.Albeit a staunch advocate of vagrancy and spontaneity, my morning routine of a different coffee venue each day has been my way of combining structure with exploration.It’s been a way of acquiring a picture of life in a place, to be faintly immersed in it, allowing me to discover new areas; finding the beauty of its nature, its architecture, it’s location.  And Charleston, known for horse-drawn carriages, family-style beach weekends, and lines of high-society ancestry, does not fail in the java department.

Yes, coffee culture has been an intangible heritage for me anywhere I travel, from parking myself in Cafe Central in Vienna, which opened in 1876, to sampling third-wave roasts at Melbourne cafés, to lining up in the rain for my morning libation at the original Starbucks at Seattles Pike Place. Every day for three months in a small Spanish village, I walked on an ancient Camino path for my one euro café con leche. I drank Turkish coffee boiled in a cezve while eating my weight in pastries in a dank Parisian apartment in the 5th arrondissement (Did you know that eating pastries make your clothes shrink?), struggled to shoot morning espressos with my hosts in Lisbon, and in Italy, where they take their coffee very seriously.I have almost been up to the famous Jamaican Blue Mountains coffee plantation because nearing the top, our bus had to slowly back down the winding one lane road as a car had stalled out at the top and needed to be somehow brought down. I have ceremonially sipped “kava”, which basically tastes like a mixture of muddy water and liniment, on a remote Fijian island, sitting on the hard ground for hours, the community bowl continually circling. And I have thrown clothes out of my suitcase in order to smuggle back bags of Kona coffee from the Big Island. So you see, I am somewhat a staunch and steady champion. And I also relish the sea.

The Coast is Clean I lie on the sand listening to the anonymous heartbeat of waves against the shoreline, the sound so slow and rhythmic, it seems like the beach is sleeping.For me, being by the ocean is a time of personal renaissance, an opportunity to think about reinvesting in things that truly matter, to dialogue between the man-made and the natural. To ask – What matters right now?At the ocean, I am a proud member of The Do Nothing Club. Most don’t understand the importance of doing nothing, assuming that it’s either procrastination or laziness, but in truth, it’s one of the best things you can do, because doing nothing can give us the energy to do something.It takes time to do nothing. “Slow drip” efforts applied consistently over time is the real game changer, and the ability to completely enjoy and savour a moment is pure sweetness. In an age of speed, nothing could be more invigorating than going slow. The most ridiculous of all is to be brisk about our food and our friends and our work and our surroundings. Doing this, we habitually miss most of what it going on around us. The time that is un-rushed has the most beautiful harvest, deep and profound moments.  I don’t know about you, but I stake my soul on beauty. And the sea. And coffee.

No bones about it. The key to decorating for Halloween for a home on the market is to keep things subtle.Vampires aren’t my usual subject, but when they become prominent in Halloween curb appeal, well, it’s time for wicked ways to stage a house that “haunts well”.My best advise is to keep the majority of the Halloween decor outside. Going overboard may make buyers feel like they’re going in a haunted house – scaring away more than you attract.It’s not that harrowing to conjure up the perfect mix of classy and Halloween-y with bewitching results. Because on Halloween, you only get one chance to make the “worst” impression.

Pumpkins and gourds and mums…oh my!Pumpkins, mums, and gourds are some of the most popular additions to the exterior of a home. These are inexpensive, colourful and easily available. Buyers will go batty over them.One of the best things about pumpkins is that you can put them on the porch, on the front steps, in the yard, going up the driveway or lining the walkway.

The devil’s in the detailsTo keep the autumnal Halloween vibes alive, go for the deep browns, rust oranges, and greens in a fall foliage wreath instead of flashy purples and blacks to create a “frightfully friendly” welcome.

Watch your stepThink more “chic” than “creep”. Although it’s for Halloween, keep it neutral and classy, rather than quirky and humorous to upgrade the aesthetic of the home.

Show your spirit(s)Is there entryway seating? Instead of Halloween-ify the foyer, skip the spooky decor. Opt instead for a classic fall front porch for folks who may be sensitive to scares or aren’t fans of Halloween’s more macabre aspects altogether. Planters filled with a a battery candle lantern and an assortment of pumpkins, gourds and fall foliage will suit the season.

Screamin’ great lightingFollowing pumpkins, lights are probably the next-most spooktacular item to display, adding a great vibe to the Halloween aesthetic. Lighting has a huge impact on curb appeal, especially now that the days are getting shorter. These can be string lights strung from an entrance-way, along a fence, framing a door, wrapped around bushes or pillars, or lights around a group of pumpkins to ensnare buyers, ghostly or not.

Baby spiders sold separately. Happy Halloween Selling!

Well, it’s Week Two and I’m already down to the Michelin Guide 2-stars of Greater Charleston. Having trolled plantations, beaches, “duelling” alleys where the heat was blamed on making men say and do things thoughtlessly, dived into dank dungeons, and took selfies at all the “The Notebook” movie locations, I may soon have to seek higher ground, literally. On my agenda may be a water tower sculpted and painted to look like a gigantic peach, a dental chair museum, probably the only kazoo factory in the world, and I can’t wait to see this – “The Button Museum”.The proud papa of this edifice is a man after my own heart – an insomniac. (Which is exactly when and why I write most of missives – like now.)Bored by not being able to sleep, he decided to find a hobby – sewing buttons to one of his suits. Before he could return to his senses, two years had passed and his suit was covered in 16,000 buttons. He has now buttoned up a few caskets, shoes, guitars, and the best – a hearse. Bet you wish you were coming with me. As per Churchill’s paraprosdokian, where there’s a will, I want to be in it.Nevertheless, my morning ritual will continue. A different caffeine hit every day. Let’s just call it Coffee Curiosity, a sort of liquid exploration. Although if truth be told, I prefer to seek diaspora populations where I can stay in one place and consume. Like four cappuccinos. No one rushes me; I can be as pokey as walking with a turtle on a leash. Extra hot. Two sugars. (I have oft heard that caffeine will disabuse you of your ugliest mannerisms and turn you into a better person.)

One of the best parts about historic Charleston is that I can jump in “Rav” and drive in any direction south or east of the city and have my toes in the sand of some of the best Atlantic Coast beaches in the Southeast in less than an hour.

I have spent hours languishing on washboard sun-bleached piers watching white egrets wade in the saltwater marshes, armadas of brown pelicans flying low among the moored shrimp boats eagerly awaiting the cast off from the trawlers, and fishermen throw out their lures. And drinking sweet tea vodkas.

I have visited the magnificent Angel Oak on James Island that is unlike any other tree on the planet and walked the grounds of historic plantations that stop you in your tracks. It’s like opening a time capsule from the early to mid-nineteenth century; from the 200-year old live oak trees to its gardens to the rice “fields” to original slave cabins.

This is the picture of present and past life in a place so unlike my own.You know, when I’m walking on these paths, I think about what foot prints I’m walking on that have walked these paths before me. People that have never had the privileges and life I have now. Coming to these plantations, seeing the slave markets, knowing the tragic, inhumane history, I think the real test is not in the coming here, but what we do after we leave. It’s pointless if it is only another form of entertainment, of saying that we have been here, serving as a small blip in our lives.We can either change, stay the same, or something in between.  As for me, I hope someday I’ll wake up to see that I live on a beach.

First of all, I’m not sure that you know this about me, but hiking isn’t my first choice of a vacation activity. I prefer shopping. Which is why I’m in Charleston, the perfect Southern escape where art, architecture and history collide under a veil of Spanish moss, dialoguing between the natural – and stores. Travelling solo.

When you picture the kind of person who might embark on an expedition such as this, visions of burly men might come to mind: the sort of individuals who wear scratchy wool pants and exclusively eat their meat on the bone. But don’t worry, I use a knife to cut my meat. 

Friends of mine tell me that the mystical jungle drug ayahuasca can also help, but it seems to me that gin is simpler, more convenient and on the whole, less risky.

Hobo travelling means I can sing to my favorite tunes with no one asking to change the playlist or to please stop singing. It’s cathartic. It also allows me to reenact my reclusive tendencies and be as antisocial and ornery as I want to be. Or more than usual. 

Although it can be nice to have a non-whiny companion for such a solo adventure, like Tom Hank’s “Wilson”, or Dervla Murphy’s bicycle “Roz”, so in leu of a basketball or bike, I have tenderly named my rental car, “Rav Four”. (Incidentally, the back of the driver’s mirror already fell off, and it’s still not complaining.)
 

 Here, look at this.
 

So every day I take to the streets, giving myself over to the art of seeing. I remind myself to linger, to not consume a lot of images, but to savour a select few. It’s a function of selection. No words are necessary; there are no conversation partners. 
 

I venture in all directions, fuelled by serendipity. I turn corners following my unsuspecting feet, elated at discovering and uncovering. Wonder can thrive in the most unexpected places. Because I’m just wandering, my focus shifts from getting somewhere to just being there.
 

But there’s a huge difference between spontaneous exploration and that unnerving feeling when I don’t know where I am, or how to get back to where “Rav” is parked. Which unfortunately, happens a lot. My sense of direction and knowledge of my left from right is, for the most part, nonexistent. I have long given up hope for someone to invent a GPS that points. 

Nevertheless, I roam in Charleston’s famous alleys, straying away from sidewalks and ordinary touristy expectations. After all, what does it mean to have our choices curated by others? How does it impact us to have been told in advance whether a certain location is recommended or necessary; to see a star rating? There’s a certain dystopian quality to the notion that every aspect of life has been evaluated and scored.
 

One of my first jaunts, after stocking up on wine and Cheetos, is to find the woven wonder of the unique and beautiful sweetgrass baskets, as Charleston is the geographic home base for this tradition of Gullah basket weaving, a craft transported by West Africans first brought in slavery, which has evolved to a singular decorative art. 

​Contained
 

I find rows of these baskets in all sizes stretched out across tables at the historic City Market. Basket weaver beside basket weaver, bundling and coiling dried sweetgrass, pine needles and palmetto fronds in circles, the craft passed down from generation to generation, from mother to daughter since the 1700’s. The grasses are pretty in soft yellows and greens, their scent like freshly mowed hay. Truly, works of art. It’s hard to decide on just one – until I see the prices. 

Now if you’ve never seen the masterpiece of a movie, “Steel Magnolias”, you need to hunt it down right now so you understand the magnificence that I am about to describe to you. Note: Julia Roberts is in it, the patron saint of airplane movies.

Certain cities have distinctive colour palettes. And the “Holy City” is one of those places. From the pastel milk-paint hues of pinks, yellows, peaches, corals, greens, violets and blues, reminders of colonial Caribbean, to the infamous dark “Charleston Green” on trims, doors, and shutters, to a light blue called “haint blue”, painted mainly on ceilings, which is believed to ward off spirits in the Gullah culture. 

There are swaying palmettos, the tremendous Angel Oaks, and Spanish moss dripping off the cypress trees, but I’m sorely missing the heavenly perfume of the magnolias and my favourite – gardenias. 
 

Swig and Swine
 

I have to rest from the interminable number of wrong turns taken, so I stop for the staple beverage of the South – sweet tea. Now if you think sweet tea is something similar to iced tea, you are very much mistaken, my friend. True sweet tea has to be tasted to be believed, as it involves at least six bags of sugar.

I also order the “She Crab” Soup, a staple for Charleston, as fall is it’s peak season. Orange roe tops it to make it specifically a soup made with female crabs. Don’t even ask me how they know the difference between male and female. 

Nightly Spirits
 

No, not rum. Ghosts. Charleston is also known for being one of the most haunted cities in America. Apparently it’s hard to find an area that doesn’t have some creepy, chilling tale associated with it, from it’s ties with voodoo, pirates and superstition. 

We will see come October 31. Known for my allergic reaction to captured spirits, I’m staying in that night and watching an old movie someone recommended. I think they said it has Anthony Hopkins in it. 

Until next week, I’m wishing you a thousand glimmering spider webs along the way.
 

We are in the season of gratitude, and thank goodness for that.

I don’t remember exactly how I got the idea. It could have been from Sarah ban Breathnach, Oprah, Jesus, or the new Conservative leader, but twenty years ago, all I knew is that I needed to do something, anything.  My life was in a frightening 360 degrees and I was plummeting like a grouse full of birdshot. Sometimes we get stuck in the woods and can’t get out. Really, to use theological terms, it was just too frigging scary. So I started a gratitude journal with a nightly discipline of penning a minimum of five things for which I was grateful. For a very long time it was like stirring concrete with my eyelashes, a struggle to even to come up with anything more than “The sun shone today.” Or that I found the lid to a Tupperware container on the first try. Or a pair of clean socks. But bit by bit, day by day, I started to notice what previously would never have registered on my attention scale, either running around like a hamster on steroids fuelled by a diet of white sugar, or so desiccated, I lacked the impetus to look up, down, or even around.

The Goldilocks Option

In hindsight, it was probably the single most important thing I did to get me through some difficult years and trials. Literally.

Yes, gratitude can evoke thoughts of Etsy hand-painted signs and warm-and-fuzzy Intragram posts, especially during this Thanksgiving season. But this Thanksgiving, I’ve desided to switch disciplines to focus my time and attention on “awe” instead. Awe requires the same amount of focused attention as gratitude, but ‘awe’ is more all-encompassing; it encourages wonder, curiouisity, enthrallment, maybe even stupefaction.

Nowadays most of us move in the world pretty much immersed in our own weird, unfathomable, ordinary everyday lives, with our responsibilities, our committments. Sometimes it can be hard to keep a sense of perspective in the big scheme of things.

No mountain required.

You don’t need to visit the Grand Canyon, fly over the Great Barrier Reef in a small plane, walk through a Redwood Forest, stand in front of Michelangelo’s ”David”, or savour the fudgiest double chocolate brownie with melted chocolate lava chunks throughout to experience awe. You see where I’m going here.

“We must look for a long time before we can see.” – Thoreau

Here’s the thing about awe. Awe reminds us to be an unapologetic voyeur, to step outside ourselves and that we are not the centre of the universe, much to our obvious disappointment.

Dallying — now that’s the key.

When was the last time you looked at anything solely, concentratedly, and for it’s own sake? We consume a lot of images but tend to savour very few. We need to remind ourselves to linger.

It’s not just a matter of paying attention, but of taking attention, of deliberately shifting our attention. It is ultimately about the sacred and has no monetary value. We can’t put a dollar amount on a brilliant red leaf lying on the ground as the wind softly brushes our face. Or crunching though a huge pile of leaves fading away like so many summer afternoons. Or listening to a beautiful piece of music. Or seeing your philodendron growing a new leaf. It’s a function of selection.

To “follow this way or that, as the freak takes you.” – R. L. Stevenson

According to a ton of eminent researchers and scientists, a regular dose of awe is a sure fire way to boost compassion, gratitude, generosity, charity, humility, as well as reducing chocolate urges. Although I have no idea why that would be a benefit.

Awe is basically the wonderment that we feel when we see or here or experience something that we can’t easily explain – and have more bandwidth to notice.

It is one way to quiet that ego, shifting our attention away from ourselves and our self-interest. It makes us feel more connected to the outside world and feel small in a good way, giving us a sense of something much larger than ourselves without diminishing our own existence.

I’m in awe when I watch the construction workers across the street from me BUILD A WHOLE BUILDING, even though the constant pounding is driving me nuts.

I’m in awe every time I turn on my shower and water comes out – and that I can control the water temperature. 1.1 billion people have inadequate access to clean water and will never have this experience. I am more astounded than grateful: awe.

I’m in awe watching bees in my garden…then finding their way home…and that worker bees cannot have sex.

I’m in elegiac awe of the leaves turning from verdant to mustard, falling down and then doing it all over again next year. And the year after that.

Taking these moments to awe-spot adds much more value to our day-to-day lives and connections, releasing the pressure from podcasts and periphery and the counterfeit crowns that come in the lacuna of reposts, retweets and ‘likes’; this perverse hunching down over our devices, heads bent, looking like a congregation of mourners.

I think a little more joy and a little more connectedness with the world around us is something all of us could use these days. Now this is something worthy of our time – and attention.

I don’t know when in Exodus, Moses says “We’re out of here.” But I’m just so hoping it was on a Thursday.

Sidewalks

What makes some people hit the road and others stand their ground?

Summer -– the time we think about traveling down a dusty, maybe not so deserted, road. Now that the skies have opened wider, it’s time. It’s been awhile. There have been cancelled trips, or ones never planned lest they be canceled, family reunions, weddings, lazy beach vacations, or passport banned.  Forgotten habits. Forgotten feelings. The forgotten excitement of the unknown and unseen. Feeling discombobulated. It’s not natural for us to be sedentary. Travel is in our DNA. We humans have always lived as nomads – hunter-gatherers, seekers, moving about in small bands.

So what’s the purpose in the going? Maybe jest to get where you ain’t. Maybe to get to a place more interesting than the one left behind. Maybe, just maybe, to discover, uncover or recover what lies ahead. Or just to take a break from activities that are avoiding our ever diminishing attention span.

I especially savour solo road trips. Sometimes I drive ten hours straight, ending the day looking like a particularly ill-used hostage – and exhausted. For example, once after a particularly long stint, I stopped at a red light in a beautiful town in Oregon. As I admired the storefronts and scenery, I didn’t notice that the light had turned green and back to red again. It was then that a sherrif tapped on my window and said, “That’s all the colors we got here.”

Pleasure-seeking wastrel

I think there are few things more despondent than being alone in a motel; looking like the kind of location a body might be found in an advanced state of decomposition. Aftrer a long day on the road, you slump onto the sagging mattress, soft as pizza-dough. The view – a desolate, puck-marked and crumbling grey parking lot. A smouldering dusk is overtaking the sky. A long, long night is in store, mostly bent on reviewing the central quandaries of your life; sorting out love, crises, relationships, and purpose. Nothing, if not inspiring sadness.

But it doesn’t really matter, as I never particularly had a desire to keep up, or even, frankly, to sit up.

So before the final mustard coloured days of fall before it resembles a grumbling old man, I get in the car – and drive.

Yesterday I said goodbye to the family couch.

After 32 years of stalwart dedication, this unapologetic voyeur has been used as a child-launch trampoline/fort/ship, witnessed a multitude of 3 a.m. angsts and rambunctious soccer parties, and served as a bed for visitors as well as some in-the-doghouse nights.

The legs once became a flower press when I had this bright idea of starting a new hobby, and for the past two years, has secured my passport when a leg became a little wobbly. 

It has hosted tacos, tequila and love.

But there comes a time.

Every so often I read about getting older, and whoever’s writing it says it’s great to be old; to be prudent and sapient and seasoned. To be at the point where you know just what matters in life.

They drool, “Beauty comes from within.” What are they thinking? Don’t they have necks?

But I loved my old leather couch. Over the years it had developed a beautiful patina that can only be achieved with high quality material.

 

SO WHAT HAPPENED?

What happened was that the old sofa was given a new home. (I really think it was happy with the old one.) But the time had come to replace it with something new. 

However, a really good sofa is hard to find.

No, I don’t mean the quality of its frame, the durability of its fabric, or its classic, timeless design. Those can be found in abundance. No, the kind of sofa I wanted, and frankly needed, was not easily found.
 

MAYBE IT’S JUST ME 

Okay, maybe it’s just me. But when I think about a really good sofa, this is what I think about: 

1. Is it long enough to have a nap on? 
2. Is it deep enough so that I don’t fall off when I’m napping?
3. Can I use two pillows when I’m napping?
4. Can I spill red wine on it without staining?

THE NEW SOFA

The new sofa isn’t working out; frankly, we’re having some issues. I haven’t quite decided, but I’m close to calling off our relationship.

Here are my issues:

1. It’s new leather. It will need another 32 years to look like my old sofa. And I don’t have that much time.
2. The new leather looks and feels great, but everything slides off. Including me.
3. It’s curved. I can forget having a good nap. 
4. It’s new. I don’t know how the red wine will feel about that. 

THE SACRED

There are some things that are sacred to me. (For any checklist I create, my goal at minimum, is to be somewhat ambitious. Ambition can vary from “starting a business” to simply “getting off of couch”.)

1. My trips. I don’t know if you’re that familiar with me, but hiking isn’t my usual choice of vacation activities. I tend to prefer shopping.

2. My walks. No, I’m not a tightrope walker like the famous “The Great Blondin”, nor do I try to compete with David Sedaris’ 25-mile-a-day stroll, nor do I compose symphonies in my head like Beethoven. But I am renown for my intermittent “Gandhi walks”, especially when trolling through new places or ignoring street signs.

3. My writing. Although trying to write after not writing for awhile, is kind of like trying to finish the Badwater Ultramarathon after three years of sitting on the couch and eating Cheetos.

4. My sofa.

IN CLOSING

Humans are hard-wired to connect; to each other, their i-Phones, their couch. From an evolutionary perspective, it makes sense that we are particularly sensitive to separating from our couches, since our survival is pretty dependent on getting in our daily nap. So we cling and have appropriate responses to that need, which keeps us safe and protected.

Given that, I really liked my old sofa. 

Though we’ve been sequestered for months on end, this time has given us a fertile time to reflect upon our stuff. And this realization can be downright painful.  And if you’re the parent of a millennial, prepare for disappointment. For the most part, they DO NOT want your stuff.   I don’t think there’s a future for possessions of our parent’s generation. It’s now a minimalist obsessed society.

I love to walk into a home and see that someone has their own individual aesthetic and design perspective and that they’ve collected uncommon pieces that speak to them. Their home decor may be the product of years (maybe a lifetime) of collecting. Each piece is a treasure that brings to mind the time, place, and story behind where they got it. We all have heirlooms, what historians have come to call “the society of things”. They are important because they help tell our stories and make sense of the world. (except for Hummel figurines, Thomas Kinkade paintings, or barbeque lighter fluid left over from the ’70’s) But with the growth of manufacturing, we became obsessed with the sheer volume and ease of goods we could accumulate — a need so bottomless that it has left us with cluttered living rooms, packed basements and garages, and overflowing storage units. After all, there’s a big difference between needing things, and wanting things. Unless you come from a family with tremendous providence, you probably don’t have much that’s worth a lot. It’s thought that if you liquidate everything in the average home down to the teaspoons, it’s worth about $5000, not multiples of that.  Yes, even the stuff you worry the most about, the stuff you think is so good you don’t use it for fear of breaking it, has little to no resale value. Why? Baby boomers have glutted the market with their castoffs, and millennials, the next generation of buyers, don’t want it. And eventually, someone will be tasked with the OVERWHELMING JOB of getting rid of it. It’s just as important to continue defining who we are, as to continue eliminating who we are not.  You insist that your things have meaning. They have value. They have memories. They are important. Well, they’re important  – to you.  It’s your memory, no one else’s.   Nothing is worth anything if no one wants it.  My first and biggest job when I style or stage a home, is determining the excess.    Some people are like complicated wallpaper, eager to entertain, but all too frequently unable to oblige. I remind clients who are having a hard time letting go of items, that there is always someone else in the world who could use it and who might truly treasure it.  Or convincing them that they don’t really need it, use it, or require so many. That it might even be a blessing to the entire western world. Or to obey the rule that if something new comes in, something old goes out. (Like that’s EVER going to happen.)   Or emboldened with dubious veracity, they want to de-clutter – mostly by giving their clutter to me. (“No” is a complete sentence.) Alas, it goes without saying that I’ve been trying to influence people my entire life: ostensibly with limited success.  Take the pearls, not the piano.  Not only have tastes changed, but the way millennials think about stuff has changed. Their needs and desires have changed. Few now have formal dining rooms or a place for an ornate chandelier. They consider freedom a priority. They are more mobile and don’t want anything that heavily weighs them down. The hectic pace of life weakens their attachment to “things”. They are choosing simpler lifestyles, often have limited storage space, as well as not having the past two generations of attachment, guilt and sentiment that comes with that mahongany sideboard.  With today’s disposable culture, it’s cheaper to buy a sofa from IKEA than to hire a truck and move a giant sectional. As well, some of the older furniture won’t even fit in the smaller houses and condos. Some of it won’t even fit in the elevator.   Many want to start and create their own collections – surrounded by pieces that are curated to reflect their travels, memories, ways of being, and their personal style. They want to choose their own lifestyle – and flatware.   The question is: What matters in the end? What endures? Will they be treasures or burdens?   One day, this will all be yours!  So don’t guilt your children into keeping all (or any) of your possesions. Or they might just conveniently “forget” their copy of “The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up” next time they visit.