I Love the Dump, But I Don't Want to Be Its Contributor
The dump.
Or for my British friends, the tip.
I have one near me, what they call a transfer station, which is a temporary landing spot for trash and recycling as it makes its way from the homes of those who reject it to its future as a long-term landfill resident or a waste-to-energy shapeshifter.
The dump is filled with a small mountain chain of like-minded consumerism: electronics, metal crap, household trash, hazardous waste, and free mulch. There are as many giant trash-collecting trucks coming to unload their innards as there are residents happy to offload their junk. It’s not a swanky place in the slightest.
Which is why I love the dump.
“Why?” you ask. “Why on earth???” another of you asks. “Wait, what?!” the guy over there says.
[shrug] Because it’s so weird.
I will agree that the dump is partly, or fully, a depressing place. You can see without doubt how much we humans consume. And, consequently, how much we throw away. When you go to a dump, once you make your way through the shock of how weird the place is, you must process how big an effect our species has on the world.
I looked up my local dump online to see what I could learn. Our county’s Department of Public Works and Waste Management System has a complex long-term plan for managing our county’s waste to lower the cost of waste management and lessen the effect of our trash on the environment. Our county has a big population with plenty of monetary ability to acquire endless possessions that eventually get ditched.
This leads me to my contribution to all this. I used to help people organize the things in their homes — one of my favorite things to do — so I have some exposure to how much humans living in stuff-filled societies can collect over the years, and how little of it they truly need. This applies to me as much as anyone. Just because it’s available for us to purchase doesn’t mean we need it. Who doesn’t already know this? Once you move on in years, so do your possessions. You start to notice all the things you never needed, and it dawns on you.
I have a relative who I think about from time to time: Aunt Lois, my Homo erectus forebear who was the ace of her tribe at hunting and gathering. If she were alive today, the two of us would so happily go to TJ Maxx, Costco, and Home Goods to hunt for great deals on stuff we seriously don’t need.
It’s true, she’d be looking for berries and small voles to no avail, but I know I could convince her that in this new world, we’d beeline it to one of ten food options within 200 feet of us right after checking to see if there was a cute, completely unneeded something-or-other in the office supplies section.
I got lucky, though. My husband and I bought a 1970s contemporary style house that has very little in the way of extra storage beyond the typical bedroom closets and kitchen pantry. There’s one storage area underneath the stairwell linking the two floors. There’s no basement. The attic is accessed through a small opening in a closet. We don’t have much space to put things. If we did, Costco might have long ago awarded me an annual Best Customer Award. I already get one from Wegmans grocery store each year, not to brag.
Why do I like to acquire? I don’t really. It’s that I like the hunt, just like Aunt Lois. I’m an ADHEer, and I like the dopamine boost that comes from novelty and excitement, newness and winning, search and find. Hedonic adaptation settles in, though, and soon I’m looking for the next exciting find. Luckily, this has dissipated over the years thanks to one thing. I went to downsize the clothes in my closet one day, and the truth hit me. I don’t use some of the things I buy, and this is a big no-no. Did I mention I’m also quite frugal?
It only took one session of weeding through the shirts hanging in my closet to see how many still had price tags despite being purchased long ago. Plus, some of the clothes that I had worn had barely been worn. It’s fair to have dress clothes on hand for weddings and other infrequent celebrations, but it isn’t ideal to consume stuff simply to get a dopamine boost. There are plenty of other ways to get excitement, to experience novelty, to hunt for newness — all the while building a good life.
The reason I visited the dump the other day was to drop off my household hazardous waste: old cleaning supplies, car oil, and other day-to-day yucky liquids you’d never put in your fridge. Am I not to have cleaning supplies? The reason the dump is one of my favorite places is because of how rough and tumble it is, how utilitarian. It’s a space that values hardcore practicality over any smidge of prettiness. I like to go there and gawk.
Look at that! Look at how huge that mountain of residential scrap metal is!
Yes, it’s huge. This is because we have metal gates, ducts, or cabinetry that get old and fall apart. We use things as a species, and we always will, but can we learn to draw a line, perhaps? Can we think more of need and less of want? What if we chose something different than stuff to satisfy us?
Learning? Reading? Music? Walking? Gardening? Socializing?
I know these things often require objects — in fact, all of them — but our focus would be more on the experience and less on the acquisition of a thing. That would be cool, right?
When we die, as I’ve said many times, we never look back with love and gratitude on our stuff. We look back on meaningful things we’ve done and who we’ve spent time with. If we value financial well-being, it’s because it provides needs, not excess. It prevents the stress of not having our needs met. We care most about how we live life, not the shirt, pants, or upmarket shoes in which we live it.
I’ve settled into a bit of a minimalist mindset of late. And guess what? It’s amazing. There is calm in living without so much extra. I knew this from my professional organizing training years ago. The less excess, the calmer the mind.
This life of ours is precious, and so is this earth. We all know this. Why not spend our time on things that matter? There are endless options for this every day — dopamine-generating ones included. They spur thoughts, laughs, appreciative tears, curiosity, inspiration, connection.
That’s what makes a good life, and no store that I’ve found sells it.
Hope you're doing well, friends.
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