Minimalism beckons, but an angel stands in the way

The Boston Globe

BEVERLY BECKHAM

It was a long time ago, mid-last century. That’s when I bought the angel. Looking at her, you’d think, “Hmm. She’s seen better days.”

But this is the point, isn’t it? She’s seen thousands of days. I’ve had her most of my adult life.

I found her at Knott’s Berry Farm, a theme park in California that I visited for the first and only time in the summer of 1968 with my brand new husband. He was 22 and a travel agent, so he knew the ropes. He had been to Knott’s Berry Farm a few times before, knew it had an Old West theme, and was certain I would love it because though I was 21, I was still watching “Bonanza” every Sunday night.

So why did I buy a 12-inch angel candle instead of a wax horse or cowboy?

Maybe it was the angel’s beauty. She must have been magnificent when she was new. For years she held court at Christmas, the focal point of our creche, watching over shepherds and wise men half the size of her gilded wings. But over the years, one wing melted and her beauty faded. Her glitter dulled.

My husband said, way back before minimizing became a thing, “Take a picture of her, then throw her away.” That’s what I’d done before. And for some things, mostly my kids’ things, broken dolls, Fisher Price puzzles with missing pieces, an Easy Bake Oven that didn’t bake anymore, having a picture was enough.

But angels are not meant to be tossed in the trash.

So I moved her into my office, where she has sat on top of a file cabinet next to a ceramic Cookie Monster for years.

In January, my husband and I went away for six weeks and I lived a minimalist life. I brought only what could fit in one suitcase. And I realized I could live like this. Without angels and a gazillion books and pictures everywhere. When I get home, I am going to purge, I promised myself.

But around week three, I began to miss some things. Not just my makeup mirror, which God knows, I need. (Why is it everyone else can see chin hairs except the person who has them?) I missed my books and my journals. I missed all the photos that are everywhere in my house. I missed my CDs. I missed what the world says I don’t need.

I am home now and upstairs in my bedroom, on a windowsill, is a card my granddaughter Megan made, which got rained on (I left the window open). The card says, “We go to the sea to lose our troubles, and find our treasures.” I love this card with its perfect words and rain-bent edges. I love the Willow Tree Happiness Angel right next to it and a black, heart-shaped rock I found at Nantasket Beach last summer, and every piece of sea glass, which reminds me of every beach I’ve ever been, and the pictures of Janet Butler and Lois Edgerly, two friends I miss every day, whom I think of every day because there they are, framed and in plain sight, smiling at me.

Playbills. I had dozens dating all the way back to the 1960s. But about 20 years ago I tossed most of them in the trash. Because the world said I should. Because the world says less is better. I regretted parting with my playbills almost immediately. So I started all over again, keeping even the imitator ones.

“Massachusetts Miss Amazing, Saturday March 24th 2018, Medfield High School. (Celebrating the abilities of girls and women with disabilities)” is in my hand right now. A random choice. I dug it out of a pile. Lucy, my granddaughter, was a Miss Amazing participant. She was 14. She wore a pale blue gown. She stood on a big stage, held a mic, and sang out loud and clear, “You Don’t Own Me.” The audience was silent until the end. And then they stood and cheered.

Can I live without this memory that the playbill brought back? Can I live without sea glass and Megan’s card and a faded angel? Of course I can. But do I want to live without the things that make me remember and smile?

I am home in my cluttered office after weeks of non-clutter, and there sits my faded angel next to the Cookie Monster my friend Caryn’s mother made almost five decades ago, next to a picture of my beautiful aunt Lorraine, and here I sit, buffered by this trio, by the memories each holds. And I think, if something makes us happy, however briefly, isn’t that something not trash, but treasure, worth keeping and preserving and revisiting and maybe even revering? Especially now.