Our Inventories of Things
Plant a seed in your mind.
Then run with it.
And I literally mean run with it. (Though walking/hiking/biking will work too.)
The act of such exercise activates neurotransmitters and cultivates thought in ways incompatible with desk sitting. This is not new - writers and philosophers throughout history have gone for walks to ponder ideas, often reaching breakthroughs in the process.
But this piece is neither meant to extoll the benefits of exercise nor dive into the value of thinking + bipedal activity. Instead, it’s about one particular thought and its journey through my brain.
Often, someone will say something to me on a run, and it’s like my pondering-curious-what-if muscles kick into high gear, and I find myself thinking about the idea for days after.
On a recent run, a friend told me about a field trip she had hosted at her bike shop. One of the students wanted to know if the workers maintained a list of all the things in the tiny building. This inquisitive young person wasn’t interested in a standard inventory of bikes or bike parts, rather they were curious about the shop’s eclectic knick knacks - the posters adorning walls and baubles on shelves that had captivated their attention.
The student was disappointed to learn that the shop’s mechanics do not maintain such a list, but the question intrigued my friend enough to mention it to me, and now it was dashing along on my brain’s treadmill.
We finished our run, and my mind kept coming back to this idea of lists and inventories. Perhaps it’s because I am in the throes of packing a house - going through all of my belongings and keepsakes that I am intrigued by the idea of cataloguing. What, how and why do we keep track of the things we have, the memories we hold?
By no means do I have a list of all the items in my home - keeping up with such an endeavor would be a never-ending and somewhat purposeless task, but as I sift through the sand of my life, I realize that there are many inventories I have kept over the years.
For a while, we were pretty diligent about cataloging rocks…
When my boys were little, having filled their pockets with treasures from hikes, we would choose our favorites, paint little numbers on them, and log a short description of where specimen was found and why one of our sons had deemed it keep-worthy before dropping it into a special container. Periodically, we would empty this container and sort through the journal to find the corresponding note. To do so was to travel back in time - a toddler crouched by the side of the road collecting a nugget of asphalt or a 6-year old prying up a green rock embedded in the dirt of a campsite.
We kept up this practice until it became a burden. The jar was overflowing and we soon had a queue of rocks in small bags, plastic food containers, or organized into piles, all waiting to be catalogued. The memories of each collection had become fuzzy and the thought of sorting through the backlog felt stressful. This practice had served its purpose, and we gave it up.
Though I initially felt a pang of guilt at giving up the effort, I believe that this finitude actually increases its value. Now, when I glance at the container on the shelf, it takes me back to a distinct time in our lives.
This rock collection has me thinking about all of the other collections of moments we keep:
The photos I snap on my phone capture images, places, and feelings I want to remember.
I track my physical activities on Strava, using the app less as a fitness tool and more as a repository of what I did when and with whom.
When I want to remember a funny/interesting/preposterous question from one of my kids, I jot it down in a note on my phone.
I keep an inventory of topics I want to write about or ponder further in another phone note.
And little vials of labeled sand have replaced our rock collection.
Apparently I have lots of lists!
Others may keep special receipts, newspaper clippings, recipes, cards, or photos of special meals. People collect figurines, models, coins, and stamps… We likely all have unique ways to inventory the moments that matter.
One of my favorite forms of meditation is a practice called “noting.” It’s its own cataloguing of sorts - a way to stay present while taking stock of what you see around you or where your brain is wandering in any given moment.
On hikes and runs, I often find myself inventorying the plants. The pentstemon, yucca, or field bindweed embeds itself as a marker in my mind of that particular place. This past weekend, I met a yucca and a prickly pear in full bloom, and even more than the ancient sandstone arches I had set out to visit, these images of flowers are what I will hold onto the most.
While my friend’s bike shop may not have a list of all its trinkets and treasures, the very fact that those items exist as they are in the shop tells a collective story. Our personal inventories serve the same purpose - to tell the stories of our lives. As I pack up our house, I realize that our collections grow and evolve with us, and each, whether deliberate or accidental, reveals something about how we make meaning. I’m reminded of Amanda Gorman’s Call Us What We Carry, an aptly titled collection of poetry exploring what we document and what it says about our personal histories.
If you’re up for it, ponder what you carry and how you keep an inventory of the things in your own life. Plant this little seed of a thought and take it for a walk. I wonder where your journey will take you, and I’d love for you to share.