I recently sold the curio cabinet that my husband and I have had for years. I’ve always hated it - dark wood with glass doors and shelves, not my style. It was, however, the perfect piece of furniture to hold all of our “good” stuff. You know, the Tiffany & Co. vase that my dad’s client gave us for our wedding, the commemorative church candles from each of our kids’ communions, the Wedgewood china ‘fruit and cream’ set sent from England on our first anniversary.
Somehow, even though we were never told this specifically, we assumed that we had to keep all of these things, to showcase them. They were beautiful, expensive items that would accentuate our dining room and make conversations start when people noticed them. I stored my Grandmother’s homemade porcelain doll there (even though it had a huge chip in it,) rosary beads of my Mom’s, two gargoyle mugs someone gave us for our wedding, crystal picture frames, a collection of British coins, and various other “cherished” articles we had been given throughout our marriage and through the course of having three children.
The curio cabinet became a part of the dining room. We’d walk by it as we cleared the dinner table or had homework meetings. In time, we never really noticed it - never even opened its doors except for the monthly dusting of everything inside and an occasional ‘Windex’ hit. I don’t recall any conversations ever starting from the items that were on display.
What I do recall is carefully packing each individual article into a moving box labeled “fragile,” and lugging that monstrosity of wood up from Boston to New Hampshire when we relocated. We positioned the cabinet in the corner of our new dining room, unwrapped each piece, and arranged them in the exact same place they had previously held.
But, here's the thing, the curio cabinet didn’t bring me any joy. I considered it a keeper of stuff. Just stuff. Stuff I didn’t particularly want, and stuff that one day my kids would be responsible for. Every time I dusted the precious goods inside, I felt angry about having to dust, annoyed that I had to keep these things on display when they weren’t even my aesthetic.
And then one day I decided to get rid of it. It was a liberating moment! I finally decided that, in true Generation X style, the stuff inside wasn’t important to me. The memories were, the stories were, but the actual items themselves - were not.
I took everything out of the cabinet. I extracted a couple of small items that were legitimately special - my Mom’s rosary beads, a tiny Norwegian spoon that belonged to my grandmother - these now sit inside my jewelry box. Everything else was tossed (will I go to hell because I threw my kids' communion candles away?) or sold on Facebook marketplace. I didn’t make much money, but the woman who bought the crystal pieces loved them, and the couple who collected the actual curio cabinet were ecstatic to find a great piece of furniture for their daughter’s new apartment.
My old stuff brought joy to other people.
And now my empty dining room corner brings joy to me!
