I got great pleasure from the thought that the little blue timer - which I bought decades ago with money from Grandma Lu - was going to be useful to someone. It made the effort of getting rid of something and writing about it seem worthwhile, at least for that one day. It made it easier to let go.
A co-worker told me a few days ago that thinking of other people getting value out of his old stuff has made it easier for him to let go of things, too. He told a story about putting an old chain saw out on the street on Spring Clean Up day in Plymouth, when anyone can put their old stuff out on the curb. A guy came along and picked up the chainsaw before Jeff even had time to set it down. A guy who seemed capable of fixing it. Who was excited to have it. So Jeff has gotten much more pleasure out of giving away the old chainsaw than he ever got from having it stored in the basement, an unfinished task hanging around like a rain cloud.
With most of my stuff, it's hard for me to visualize the Salvation Army customer who might buy it and get the joy of using it and the joy of a bargain all wrapped in a single package. Most of my stuff, I think, people won't want. But maybe I'm wrong. I wouldn't have thought anyone would want that little blue wind-up timer. Doesn't everyone have a timer on their stove and their cell phone and their digital clock and their microwave and their iPad already?
Unfortunately, this story has an unhappy ending. Like yesterday's laundry basket, the little blue timer went to the Salvation Army with Sam and never came home. I forgot to take it out before I sent Sam on his errand.
John CP, would you like a KitchenAid timer instead?
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