Of Ownerships and Identities

I sold my beautiful Honda 2012 Odyssey van a few of weeks ago. I drove the car for eleven years, hauling kids (carpool), thousands of pounds of groceries (from Costco), large and small furniture and personal items, trays of oily food for social events (that permanently stained the trunk carpet), soil (more than 13 thousand pounds for one project, just as an example) and shit (hundreds of pounds of cow manure as fertilizer). This small sample of things does not do justice to the vast variety of shapes, sizes, and weights, both living and non-living entities, that I have carried in the van for over a decade. Like a faithful dog and a hardworking donkey, the car silently obeyed my every command and never complained. In turn, I took good care of it. I would change the engine oil and do essential maintenance using only the best I could find. Sure, sliding under the car, with its front tires balanced on a couple of plastic slopes, and looking up to see a few tons of metal hanging over my nose can be quite unnerving. But I got used to it. I got to know the van’s mechanical state well. I would jump in to maintain it as soon as I sensed something was going out of whack. The mechanic who inspected the car on behalf of the buyer reported it to be clean and defect-free. The buyer thanked me several times for selling my car to him, a perfect vehicle he had been looking for a long time for his family. I felt good that the car had found a good home where it would be adequately cared for. However, I sensed something was wrong as part of my existence went missing with the sale. 

“The-Man-with-a-Van” was my meme for the car and its driver. I used to say this with a fake swagger that kids came to associate with the van and its owner. I was continuously seeking activities that are associated with dirt, grime, lumber, metal, nails, screws, and physical labor. My dirt-covered sneakers, grungy t-shirts, and stained jeans matched my van perfectly, like a size 9 foot in a size 9 shoe. It was a constant source of embarrassment for my family. I would get strongly worded requests to take the nicer car when attending a social event. The kids, now grown up, would scream at me when asked to ride in the van. I would bear this unfair, damaging emotional storm with the nonchalance of a yogi. Class? That is not me. But then the pressure of getting rid of the van got to me. I sold it within a few weeks of placing an ad on social media.

Then the reality hit – I needed a car to do chores like transporting groceries and gallons of liquid chlorine for my pool. I did not want a new car. Eventually, my family permitted me to take the ten-year-old BMW X3 with 90K miles on it. It had multi-color scrapes and hit marks on all its body panels. My Honda van looked much better than this poor soul of a car. But after I professionally repaired the damages, the car now looks great – just like the brand it belongs to. And it has changed me. I have already announced that I will not be doing yard work anymore. No lifting and transporting of heavy and grimy stuff. I have been dressing decently with cotton shirts, clean jeans, and new shoes from Nordstrom (Rack). I drive the car with its trunk empty most of the time. I feel refined, and it is showing up in my appearance and behavior. I have tried to make sense of this change, and here is what I concluded:

What you own will also own you.

See, ownership is a bi-directional relationship. We almost always focus on the first – top (me) to bottom (object) direction. But rarely on the other way – bottom (object) to top (me). This applies to all ownerships – physical objects like cars, houses, and jewelry, as well as non-physical things like reputations, opinions, thoughts, and habits. 

I will now look at new ownerships in this light. And try to eliminate things that do not define me. Subtraction can be more powerful than addition. Deliberate loss is better than mindless possession. Time to get into a subtractive mindset.