CAN’T TAKE IT WITH YOU

When I lost all my stories a few weeks ago, I only had one conclusion after all the tears and snot got blown into a tissue—the Universe was making me look at life from a different perspective.

Those stories are like stuff. You can’t take it with you when you leave.

For instance, while antique shopping last weekend, we wound up at a consignment estate shop. The warehouse stored thousands upon thousands of tapestries, furniture, seating, you name it. Beautiful ornate pieces that were once purchased with pride and purpose for the great room, or the bedroom, or the formal dining room. Each aisle had a number and letter affiliated with products housed on shelves. Metal and wood tables, stiff and comfy sofas, dining chairs and bench seats, all neatly piled on top of each other. Pieces of tempered glass for the tables were stacked, also labeled with a unique QR code. The place was a maze one could easily get lost in.

But it was just stuff.

It was the junk that children or grandchildren may have thought hideous or oversized when their beloved died. They had no reference of the time it took to save for that one, perfect headboard; the sacrifice that had happened to make that purchase. The living family just saw that furniture as stuff they had to deal with; hence, the massive capacity of the consignment estate warehouse.

You can’t take it with you when you go!

We spend so much of our lives wanting to make more money, so we can buy more stuff that fills our home in hopes it makes us happy. And yes, there is something to having pride in your work, your desire to become a better version of yourself. But when did someone make the decision for us, that being a better human means we must have a bunch of tangible items to show off?

My stories weren’t technically tangible. They were digital depictions, made up of ones and zeros. The computer they were on was tangible. The paper they weren’t printed on was tangible. But the words themselves were a figment of my imagination.

Did the syntax of those words make me a better human? Probably not. But writing them gave me a sense of purpose. Maybe those lost stories weren’t meant for the world to see. Maybe I wrote them for me—a sense of personal development to say, yes, I’ve done what many people only think about doing. I wrote with intent.

Is my writing intent any different from the sacrifice of the old dead couple who had to save money for that oversized, hideous furniture? Maybe, maybe not. But honestly, I’ll never know, will I?