Thoughts on simplicity while shredding paper

As anyone who has attempted to de-clutter their life knows, simplicity can be complicated. It involves tackling not only the accumulation of stuff—those bins of college syllabi, old magazines, childhood treasures—but extra tasks we’ve taken on, organizations we’ve joined, the demands other people make on us, and all the clutter in our minds.

I remember one of the biggest decluttering jobs I ever undertook. It was over 25 years ago. After more than 75 years of service, the Friends Mission officially pulled out of Bolivia, leaving behind a national church of over 200 congregations with its own leadership, forms, and finances. It was time. Hal and I were the last missionaries on the field, so our task was deciding what to do with 75 years of accumulated mission files.

The first phase required that we decide what to keep, which basically came down to legal documents and records that had historical significance: correspondence, yearly financial reports, minutes, working agreements, and so on. Since most of this history took place before the internet and safe-keeping in the Cloud, that meant boxes of paper.

After setting aside the keeper documents, we had to deal with reams of minutia. We were overwhelmed with stuff, from multiple mimeographed copies of some class a missionary gave, to receipts for bottles of aspirin. We decided to shred the minutia, bag it, and let the municipal garbage service haul it off. That became our job description: sort, shred, bag.

As I sat on the rug shredding, many thoughts came to mind. I remembered that all these pieces of paper were related to real people and real situations. Long financial worksheets reminded me of the economic crisis of the 1980s when run-away inflation caused many of our Bolivian friends to lose their life-savings. The medical receipts brought forth images of Vicente and Arturo, Friends pastors who literally gave their lives in the service of the gospel.

I was impressed by the integrity all the receipts and reports represented. Every thing was accounted for and recorded. I also thought about all the trees that were sacrificed to maintain such integrity.

And I reflected on the values this task represented. I noted how one person’s garbage can be another person’s treasure. I observed how the bags of shredded paper we put in front of our gate almost always disappeared before the garbage truck arrived. Apparently a local industry was finding this stuff useful as packing material. It was cheaper than plastic bubbles. This made me feel a little better about the trees.

But mostly I reflected on the value of simplicity. It felt good. As the accumulation of paper lessoned, I felt relief. And today, too, whether it’s clearing out closets or the refrigerator, cleaning my desktop, simplifying my schedule, or re-ordering my priorities, the resulting sense of lightness and rightness makes it worth the effort.

I also reflected on the fact that, as mentioned above, simplicity is complicated. That’s a great oxymoron. None of this is easy or automatic. Simplicity is not simple. To let the stuff in my files or on my desk accumulate takes no effort whatsoever. Bringing order out of chaos does. It requires time, energy, organization, wisdom, and generosity, a willingness to give away what might be useful to someone else.

Recently as I was walking the labyrinth our Friends meeting has constructed in an adjacent field, I found myself repeating a simple prayer: “You are my life. You are my life.” It was as though God was reeling me in, bringing me back to the basic simplicity of soul from which all else flows. I found myself asking, with the psalmist, “Whom have I in heaven but you? And earth has nothing I desire beside you” (Psalm 73).

I felt God reminding me that simplicity begins in the heart. It flows from a life oriented to the source of all life, from the deep knowledge that in God alone we “live and move and have our being.” That’s basic to Christianity, yet somehow I keep forgetting.

As I walked that path, I began to affirm, “Above all relationships—husband, children, grandchildren, friends—you are my life. Above all I possess or hold on to for security—my car, my books, my insurance policies, my investments—you are my life. Above all the intangibles I cling to—my health, my education, my achievements, my talents, my rights, my dreams—you are my life.” And I found myself praying, “Oh, Lord. Let it be. Change my heart. Keep reeling me in to yourself.”

I am sensing that only when I live from the simplicity of a life oriented to God can I move freely into the world as God’s agent of reconciliation and peace.

When will I start remembering this so much that I live by it? When will this attitude become a holy habit?

Prayer: “Take from our souls the strain and stress, and let our ordered lives confess the beauty of thy peace.” (John Greenlead Whittier)

Clearing the forest floor

Before making the big change and moving over to the old growth forest (the retirement community), we had to clear the forest floor in our old condo. The place had accumulated a lot of debris and clutter over the years. Some of it was precious clutter.

To put it in a positive light, we decided we were on a quest for simplicity, a good Quaker value. We discovered that simplicity is not as simple as it seems.

After 70 years living in two countries, 13 towns or cities, and multiple houses, we had a lot of stuff. Actually, because our missionary life-style required that we live light, we had less possessions than many of our peers. But it still seemed like a lot.

De-cluttering-guru Marie Condo helped, although we found her book funny. (Verbally thank your old socks for giving such good service to your feet? Come on!) Marie advised us to make a pile of stuff in a given category (nick-nacks, for example), then go through the pile item by item, deciding what to give away (surely our son will want this ceramic cow that came

from my mother), what to donate to Goodwill, what goes to the dump, and, finally, what we get to keep. This last small pile we would take along as we entered our retirement forest.

Marie told us to only keep items that give us joy. My problem is that too many things give me joy. I am easily pleased.

I admit that we didn’t follow all Marie Condo’s suggestions to the letter, but we did manage to get the job done. Partially. Actually, a lot of hard decisions went into boxes to be stored in our son’s large garage; we figured we could go through that stuff little by little in the next few years (a task still pending).

Some thoughts on simplicity that emerged from our downsizing adventure:

1.)   Simplicity feels good. As the accumulation of possessions lessens, I feel relief.  Whether it’s clearing out closets or refrigerators, raking leaves, cleaning my desk top, simplifying my schedule, re-ordering my priorities, or making a major move, the resulting sense of lightness and rightness makes it worth the effort.

2.)   Simplicity is complicated. That’s a great oxymoron. None of this is easy or automatic.  Simplicity is not simple. To let the stuff in my files, on my desk, or in the attic accumulate takes no effort whatsoever. Bringing order out of chaos does. It requires time, energy, organization, wisdom, and generosity, a willingness to give away what might be useful to someone else.

3.)   Where our treasure is, there will our heart be. Jesus said that. And our treasure should be invested in things that remain. And so I pray, “Lord, help me give my heart to things that are permanent. And show me what they are.”  To my mind come images of worship, gratitude, relationships, a glass of grape juice given to my grandson, a word of encouragement to my neighbor. Things that leave no paper trail, sacrifice no trees—but that build for eternity. I also think of Jesus’ promise to his disciples that if they would learn to abide in him, their labors would produce “fruit that remains.”

Now that I’m living in the retirement community, do I ever miss something I gave away? Of course. I also encounter things on my shelves, in the bookcases, and hanging in the closet that I still could do well to get rid of. I guess the decluttering will go on until I die.

I might as well laugh.