Hoarding

I am cleaning out my mother's house. She was a hoarder who stashed things in every corner, cabinet and closet for years. When my father was alive, he helped to keep her in check. He died eight years ago.

In my mother's case, hoarding made great sense. She was raised during the Great Depression in the poorest of immigrant circumstances. She wanted for everything as a child. Her hoarding was pragmatic, as she saw it. She saved every plastic bag from a loaf of bread. She saved every plastic margarine container. She saved every opened envelope from junk mail for scrap paper.

Unfortunately, compulsive hoarding, when untreated, leads to a particular brand of social irresponsibility. The implications for those who care for the hoarder are grave. The hoarded goods become a priority at the expense of human relationships. An inevitable miserliness of spirit develops. The hoarder retreats more and more into the cave of squirreled prizes.

As I plow through my mother's treasure of saved trash, I am encouraged in my personal distaste for materialism. There are moments when I am enjoying throwing things away. However, I am mostly saddened at the realization that my mother had an internal emptiness and fear which led her to accumulate these worthless things.