Stuff
In which I think about the flotsam and jetsam of life
Nobody wants the dusty pink bike with its two flat tyres, not even for free, not even with a bike pump thrown in. I’m not surprised; I’ve neglected it for the last three years. When it first came to me, already a hand-me-down from someone else, the back tyre needed repair but Canal Turn turned out to be oddly short of bicycle repair people. In Xi’an back in the day, every other corner seemed to have an old man with a set of tools and a basin of water to look for the leaks. Not so in Canal Town in the 2020s; people have moved on to electric scooters and Teslas. And when I did find a place and get the bike fixed, it turned out to be less convenient and comfortable to ride than the city’s public bicycles, of which there is an extensive and well-maintained network, and which are free to ride under 30 minutes. And so the poor pink pushbike gathered dust and lost air again.
The printer and the toaster and the IKEA easychair were snapped up though. And the set of three raffia storage baskets that I bought long ago in the local market in Beijing, and the air purifier and the ironing board. I’m clearing out all the stuff I’m not shipping back to Scotland. Giving away what I can, wondering what to do with the things no-one really wants - the bike, the DVDs no-one has a player for any more, the books that aren’t very good so I can’t wholeheartedly recommend them but don’t just want to throw them away either. The things that have lurked at the backs of cupboards, like the Kilner jar of marmalade I made one time that turned out too solid to hack with a knife, let alone spread on toast, but that I kept in case I could use it for something: now I’m bending a spoon gouging the marmalade out, because someone might just want that jar.
Today, I’ve been sitting at home while a slow stream of people comes to look at things and take what they fancy. Two of them bring a small gift to reciprocate: in both cases, watermelons. The things people choose fascinates me. The Mexican bioinformatician takes two heat-resistant mats, three tea-light holders and some glasses. A young Chinese postdoc comes with his mother, and I rejoice, because an older lady with an eye for a bargain is much more likely to snaffle plates and pots than a young man might be. They go away with a big bag of stuff. The lugubrious Czech engineer from downstairs comes to the door puffing and panting, complains about the A/C, tromps around saying “I have no idea, I have no idea,” then takes some wine glasses, a bedside lamp, a lightweight single-bed duvet that might do for when his son visits, a large poster frame with a crack across one corner, several books on science and religion, and a 1000-piece jigsaw puzzle titled “The Cosy Shed” that I did when I had Covid. He said he’s not done a jigsaw puzzle before but might as well give it a try. As he’s leaving, he tells me darkly that the real reason I’m leaving China isn’t the one I’ve just told him. I roll my eyes quietly after he’s gone.
Then there’s the stuff I do want to keep. The books, the artwork, clothes, souvenirs. There’s the complicated calculus of how many boxes I can afford to ship; will it be cheaper to reduce the number of boxes but pay for an extra suitcase on the flight? Is this book one that I should take or is it one I could easily find in a charity shop when I get home? I definitely want to take the painted wooden Ukrainian candle-holder my friends gave me, but what about this collection of pebbles from different places I’ve been, given I can no longer remember which pebble came from where? What about the picnic blanket I got as swag at a conference I once went to in Chicago, but which has been hallowed by the memory of sitting under the trees by Lake Michigan with my best friend just before her cancer diagnosis?
The flotsam and jetsam of sixteen years takes a while to get through. I spend a morning clearing and cleaning, then stop and stagger into the fresh air of Patrick Bringley’s luminous memoir All the Beauty in the World while I sit on the balcony eating lunch. Another day, it’s The Ferryman by Justin Cronin. I take an afternoon and evening to go into the nearby provincial capital, where I walk green tree-shaded streets on the way to a poetry reading by Beijing-based writer
. He signs a copy of his poetry collection We Met in Beijing, poems that take me back to my years in that city and others that form a memento of the Covid years. Another day, I meet up with friends in a local coffee shop and we plan a trip together to Huangshan, the Yellow Mountain, before I go.This is the stuff that matters. Truth, beauty, friendships, faith. The other stuff - the toaster and bed linen and photo frames - are part of life, and are useful and pleasant gifts for a time. But I’m reminded again that life does not consist in the abundance of one’s possessions. It’s the stuff that lasts that matters.
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The slow unravelling
Last week, I went into the kitchen to feed my sourdough starter. I opened the jar and saw the surface writhing. Gosh, it’s active today, I thought. The weather’s warmed up now, so my fermentations (sourdough and kombucha) have been going a lot faster than during the winter. A split second later, I saw that the activity in the sourdough was not happy bub…
This is lovely and evocative. There are depths in its simplicity.