Over the course of the last two years, I have spent a great deal of time trying to figure out how much stuff is the right amount of stuff. It seems to me that it goes in steps. First is the having enough to survive. Then there is having enough for comfort. Which is followed by the right amount of stuff to own to impress people with. Finishing off with having so much stuff it bankrupts you, because it costs more to house all of your "stuff" then it does to house you.
I am finding that I feel happiest on the minimalist side of the comfort range, not quite to the point of scandinavian vogue.
I think we accrue stuff to define ourselves. By feathering the nest, we establish our territory and prove our individuality. Somehow it all goes incredibly wrong. I am watching as my children are trying to come to terms with their own "stuff". Things so craved when they started out, because they had nothing. Much of it only feels like a burden now... especially on moving days.
Right now I would give all of my stuff to have Edgar and Evelyn back to see me. Missing them terribly. Stuff just doesn't seem to be an important part of my personal culture anymore. What I do and who I'm with seems to encompass the meaning of life for me now. So, exceedingly simple, and it only took fifty-two years to arrive here.