“Material things are delightful, but they’re not important.” – Sir Richard Branson
Editor-In-Chief, Chester “Trip” Buckenmaier III, MD, COL (ret.), MC, USA
When you are a billionaire like Sir Richard Branson, you tend to have a lot of stuff (I would assume). Furthermore, you are relieved of the pressure most people in the world feel to afford the necessities of life. While I agree with Branson’s thesis, I am not sure a person’s opinion regarding materialism is worth much when they command such overwhelming resources. As are most readers of this column, I am not a billionaire, although I recognize that my employment as a federal physician has supported my family far beyond basic necessities. Having traveled much of the world and witnessed first-hand the poverty that consumes much of the world’s population, I am keenly aware of how well we live in America. We are truly blessed with a climate and government that allows our population to generally thrive (there are notable exceptions, certainly). We are indeed fortunate to live in this country, and this system is worth defending, as so many readers of US Medicine have devoted their careers to doing.
Those that follow this column know that Pam (my wife) and I have recently retired from active federal service. For the first time in my life, I can live anywhere I want, instead of where the government has sent me. For years a needlepoint my wife stitched for us when we were first married hung in our various doorways proclaiming, “Home is where the Army sends you.” Pam, the kids, and I seemed to move every few years to a new duty station for the first half of my career. As any military family knows, moving is always a challenge, and no move is ever the same. One advantage of moving, though, was the necessity to shed some stuff. Military moves forced us to clean out closets of old clothes, separate the kids from old and broken toys, and decide on which pieces of furniture we really wanted to keep. Unfortunately, even those material items that made the cut would often fall victim to loss through the moving process itself (pro-tip: if you really love it, do not hand it over to the movers). Over our 34-year career with the federal government, we have bought, lost, and re-bought many things.
I absolutely agree with Branson that buying new stuff is delightful. There is an unmistakable dopamine rush associated with acquiring new clothes, a car, or furniture. We often did not get the best stuff (planning for the next move), but our family was never for want. I am genuinely grateful for that fact.
In preparing for retirement, we recently sold the home we have occupied for the latter half of my career since 2007. This is the longest I personally have ever lived in one place (I was a military brat). Furthermore, we sold practically everything we own, much to the concern of some family and utter horror of some friends and neighbors. “How can you let go of all your stuff?!”
First, it was not easy getting rid of so much accumulated material. It was not so much an emotionally challenging task as it was a physical and logistical one. It forced us to make hard decisions on what we really loved or truly needed, and it was hard to sell, give away, or trash so many things. Our former home was not huge by most middle-class standards. Still, Pam and I were amazed at how much stuff we had accumulated without the cleansing routine military moves had provided early in our marriage. The process took many months, and every trip to Goodwill or the dump was cathartic.
As products of our American society, we were major consumers. Pam and I initially bought into the belief that we needed new and better stuff. So, we bought the bigger house, the newer car, the better clothes. We were pleased we had the resources to do so, and it was delightful. However, as we matured and our kids grew, we seemed to shrink in our desire for square footage to occupy with things. Our family always seemed the happiest cruising on our sailboat, where conditions were cramped, and only important stuff supporting life was allowed. In that spirit, we have downsized again, trading the home and the boat for an RV (Winnebago Adventurer 30T) and only keeping the most important emotional stuff (pictures, important documents, and necessities of RV life). We have even sold our cars and will depend upon (we will see for how long) twin electric bikes for local transportation as we travel the nation.
Again, our new stuff in the RV itself and the things we have purchased for this new life are delightful. Although we depend on fossil fuel to move the RV, our carbon footprint shrunk even more, which pleases me. To exist comfortably in the minimal space of the RV, Pam and I have been forced to reduce our stuff down to the things that support our existence (for the most part, rum seems essential to me). Despite what Branson says, that stuff is necessary, although billionaires likely do not worry about material survival.
So, what have I learned in this process? The only fundamental importance of stuff is how it supports and enhances your relationships with family and friends. Otherwise, material things are meaningless. As federal medicine providers, we are in direct support of the only thing that truly matters: our ability to interact with each other. The things we use to enhance the health of our patients are perhaps the most important stuff we will have in our careers. I am somewhat embarrassed that it has taken 57 years to come to this new conclusion (for me) regarding stuff. It has been an epiphany for me and has helped me grow. I feel I appreciate the importance of what we do in federal medicine even more. I think I would change Branson’s quote to: “Family and friends are delightful; they are the only important thing.”