"Carry In, Carry Out"
What do state park signs tell us about materialism?
I’m having a tag sale. That’s what they’re called in Connecticut, where I lived for seven years. Here in Buffalo they’re “garage sales,” and I should probably call it that, since the garage is where the jetsam of our lives has convened on a blue ping-pong table and now awaits being chosen, bought, and carried away to other houses.
I want to write, “I can hardly believe the amount of stuff we have collected over the past 12 years!” but that’s just not true. I can believe it. It’s what happens when you stay too long in one place, when you have a basement, and when you have three kids.
It’s also what happens in a material world.
I find I return to this theme of materialism often, because, as I state in my earlier essay, The Unseen Element,
“…spirit is the seat of hope and faith, the source of creativity and inspiration. Spirit is what separates us from machinery and connects us to one another.
…Without spirit, human beings can be controlled – just like machines can. With spirit, ahh, that’s where it gets interesting. A human being that is in touch with his or her magnificent eternal essence is, frankly, unstoppable.
Jesus, Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Joan of Arc… all dangerous individuals, because their faith in that unseen element made them fearless. And a fearless human being is a free human being.”
Today, I want to flip the materialism coin to its other side, the realm of spirit.
Years ago, I lived in NYC while I pursued a life in the theatre. I owned an Ikea table and two folding chairs, a single red futon couch, a stereo system, a 10-speed bike, some kitchen essentials, and a bed — consisting of a mattress, a sheet of plywood, and 12 milk crates.
Each of the 11 times I moved in the ten years I lived there, I collapsed the bed, packed my clothes and personal care items into the milk crates, dialed up “A Man with a Van,” and schlepped all my stuff out of five-floor walkups, across Manhattan, and into five-floor walkups. Okay, that’s hyperbole. A few places had elevators.
I lived on the Upper West Side, in Midtown, on Roosevelt Island, and in Greenwich Village. I lived in single rooms, in studios by myself, and I even shared a studio with another actor and her two cats.
I got good at minimalism, before minimalism was a thing. Moving as frequently as I did meant that I couldn’t acquire anything; plus, I couldn’t afford much more than food, subway tokens, discount tickets to Broadway shows, and Backstage Magazine.
I didn’t mind my boiled-down lifestyle, or even changing domiciles over and over, because I felt I was fulfilling my purpose: learning and growing as a theatre artist. Why would I need lots of furniture or tchotchkes?
And then I got married, left NYC, had a kid, and bought a house. Had more kids, moved to a different house, and then to another one after that. Twenty-odd years later, I’m staring at these piles of accumulated stuff, trying to decide what I’m taking with me this time.
Regular readers of The Art of Freedom (thank you, team!) will know that I’m in the process of moving again — an endeavor which is bringing up all sorts of thoughts about letting go of stuff.
When I was in my early twenties, my mother’s death ushered into me the belief that all of life is practice for letting go — of important events, cherished items, even our loved ones — so that when the time comes for us to leave this world, we are no strangers to loss.
On a bad day, I want to cling to it all: four-poster beds my mother, daughter, and I all slept in as children; shells I collected on a beach vacation; stationery leftover from our wedding; notes my children composed to Flossy Vodontalus, a.k.a. the Tooth Fairy, asking questions like “what do you do with the teeth you collect?”
On a good day, I can look at these things, even this home that I have loved, and know that I can release it all. All of it has to go someday, so why not most of it today?
None of it defines me, because none of it is coming with me.
On a recent hike in the woods of New Hampshire, I saw the familiar “Carry In, Carry Out” sign that many state parks display, and I paused to consider its message. Is there something larger being said here?
It’s clear that on the physical level, each of us comes in to this world naked. We carry in nothing and carry out nothing, but what about on the metaphysical level? Does that hold true in the spiritual realm as well?
I happen to be married to a life coach/hypnotist who does past-life and life-between-lives regressions as part of what he offers his clients. A typical exchange:
“How was work today, dear?”
“Good. I helped a woman free herself from a spiritual attachment.”
“Oh, that’s nice.”
Being a bystander for over fifteen years to the work he does has taught me much about certain properties of the spiritual world. I don’t claim to know all the mysteries of life, nor does he, but certain patterns have presented themselves over and over, leading both of us to subscribe to what we see as universal truths.
In the physical world, it’s no mystery that trauma, held in the body over years, traps an individual into proscribed beliefs that lead to actions. Abuse suffered in childhood, for example, can lead an adult to believe in her essential unworthiness, causing her to take up behaviors that reinforce that belief — overeating, perhaps, or self-harm.
What I have come to understand is that the same trauma in a past life can result in that same mistaken belief — essential unworthiness — in this lifetime, though it’s probably unexplained in this lifetime. Why? Because the belief is carried in. And it will be carried out, brought into the next incarnation, and the next, unless it is healed at its source, where it first began.
This concept is not new. It’s very familiar to shamans and indigenous healers, those beings who see illness as a manifestation of spiritual misalignment. It’s just completely dismissed by a material culture and its medical model.
Dr. Bernardo Kestrup, author of Why Materialism is Baloney, in an interview with Russell Brand, says,
“There are a great many things about nature that are flat-out not only not perceivable by us, they’re inconceivable by us.”
We rely on our five senses to know the world, but we are surrounded by input we don’t have senses for. This we know as fact. Just one of many examples: without a radio, we can’t tune in to the radio waves being broadcast all around us.
Yet if we believe that five-sense reality is all there is, then materialism is all we have, and thus it makes sense that we would spend our entire lives amassing material goods: “The one with the most toys wins.” What would our world look like if we believed that spirit is all we have? Can you imagine?
Apparently, Sting and The Police can. Witness these lyrics from Spirits in the Material World:
“We are spirits in the material world
Are spirits in the material worldWhere does the answer lie?
Living from day to day
If it's something we can't buy
There must be another way”
If we truly believed that all we “carry in, carry out” is of a spiritual nature, then we would ask ourselves, what did I bring with me into this lifetime? And what shall I take with me when I leave?
Chances are, you brought unresolved pain into this lifetime that is waiting for you to heal it, as well as wisdom gained in prior lives. Wisdom, by the way, is not the same as intelligence. Think of wisdom as intelligence-in-action, applying what you know to what you do.
Wisdom therefore is infinite, and can be carried with us when we die, whereas intelligence is bounded, and remains in the brain. We’ve all read about childhood prodigies like Mozart or Picasso, and we’ve probably all met people who possess some inborn talent. They are perfect examples of “wisdom carried in.”
What sets them apart, however, is not just the wisdom/talent they are carrying into their lifetimes, it’s the courage to use it. We all have abilities we’re born with, perhaps not as dramatic or identifiable as those of a Picasso, but real nonetheless. But few of us feel free to embody those abilities to the fullest.
Why? Fear. Yes, our old friend fear is what usually prevents us from taking action.
After meditation one day, I read this quote from Mark Nepo’s The Book of Awakening:
“Living long enough, we each find ourselves surrounded by an old way of being, thinking, or loving that is going up in flames. In that unexpected moment, we usually find ourselves full of fear, feeling trapped by an old way of life coming in on us. But this is the passage of rebirth that we must move through if our lives are to unfold. It is the momentary and painful crossing from what is old into what is new.”
I was poised to write it in my journal, when an ant crawled onto my yoga mat and deposited the carcass of another ant, dead, right in front of me. He dropped the remains, then turned and left. He did not return.
An offering? I see it as such. Here, he is saying, here is what you must do. You must offer up the shell of your old self, drop it at the feet of a higher power, then leave and do not look back.
We delayed putting the house up for sale for fear of not knowing exactly where we’re going next. I still feel afraid. But I’m also keenly aware that this process is removing more and more layers, stripping away what I’m holding onto, until all that’s left are the essentials.
Not the four-poster beds, but the dreams I spun. Not the shells, but the sense of awe at their beautiful geometry. Not the wedding stationery, but the joyful half-sob that escaped me the moment I heard my husband-to-be speak his vows. Not the notes to Flossy Vodontalus, but the wonder shared with my children as I transcribed their excited curiosity.
I’m boiling down my life again to fulfill my purpose, clearing the path so that I can serve humanity by putting into action whatever I’ve carried in. Then someday, hopefully in the distant future, I’ll carry out with me all the love and wisdom I’ve gained along the way.
Then I’ll probably do it all again.
Yesterday, I danced in the orchard to U2’s song, Walk On. I heard these words:
“You're packing a suitcase for a place none of us has been
A place that has to be believed to be seen.”
As more words filled my heart — words about freedom and flight — I happened to look down in the grass and saw half a tiny bird eggshell, cupping the sun. I picked it up laughing, and danced with it nestled in the palm of my hand.
This house is but a shell, a protective cover for the growth all five of us have experienced. We’ve outgrown it, whether we realize it or not. It really is time for all of us to fly.
And it’s time to start packing.
Thank you for reading or listening to The Art of Freedom. This post is public so feel free to share it.
I’d love to know what you’re thinking. Let’s chat!
always thought provoking, and beautifully expressed. Thank you Mary
Beautiful as always! I am reading through your past posts in between new SS content. Yours is so wonderfully uplifting ❣️