The Origins of Hoarding
Full disclosure: I own too much stuff, even though, being a biologist, I am aware of the environmental consequences of excessive consumption. Then why did I acquire so many things? I don’t believe that it is all the fault of Madison Avenue or my husband’s, for that matter, though I have accused him—somewhat uncharitably—of being a pack rat. Certainly, acquisition is culturally modulated, but I also see a biological base which we ignore at our peril.
The urge to procure is part of nature. Clark’s nutcrackers survive winter via the use of granary trees, snags in which they drilled holes for a cache of seeds. Bees not only process their food, but also fabricate special storage containers for it. Taking my clue from the birds and the bees, I stockpile food. I can, dry and freeze the harvest from my garden. Since I don’t know how much my husband and I will eat of any given item, I tend, like the squirrels, to err on the side of safety: I have two freezers and three shelves full of preserved foods plus a cache of apples, squashes and potatoes “buried” in my root cellar. I try, however, to avoid to build up fat reserves like the bears, an endeavor which gets tricky during Christmas season, when I engage in a serious effort of holiday baking.
But I’m not unlike wood rats when it comes to home improvement. These rodents seek out materials which they can process (i.e. shred) to cushion their nests, preferably built in prime real estate, that is my woodshed. After all, a safe and comfortable home reduces stress and thus fosters survival. Similarly, I use the wool from my sheep to fill pillowcases, weave blankets, or knit sweaters. I also understand my dog, who—by sleeping on the stairwell landing—taught me to buy him a second bed, even though he has a cushy place in the living room. Like him, I have a couch for evening lounging and a bed for night time sleeping.
Humans share another behavior with animals, namely a hankering for beauty. The male bowerbird spends endless hours searching for special objects and then places its treasures just so, to highlight them to a prospective mate. And yes, when I first visited my future husband’s home, I, like a discerning female bowerbird, paid attention to how he lived, to the pictures on the wall and the colors of furniture and carpet. I was definitely interested in a compatibility of tastes.
Perhaps, most amazingly, some animals are—like us—fascinated by knick-knacks and curios. Octopi are lured by shiny, man-made objects which they hide, dragon-style, in their lair. And the collection habits of pack rats and magpies are proverbial. Maybe when we learn why animals amass items without any discernible biological benefit (at least to our minds,) we’ll be able to better curb our own compulsion to hoard.
Full disclosure: I own too much stuff, even though, being a biologist, I am aware of the environmental consequences of excessive consumption. Then why did I acquire so many things? I don’t believe that it is all the fault of Madison Avenue or my husband’s, for that matter, though I have accused him—somewhat uncharitably—of being a pack rat. Certainly, acquisition is culturally modulated, but I also see a biological base which we ignore at our peril.
The urge to procure is part of nature. Clark’s nutcrackers survive winter via the use of granary trees, snags in which they drilled holes for a cache of seeds. Bees not only process their food, but also fabricate special storage containers for it. Taking my clue from the birds and the bees, I stockpile food. I can, dry and freeze the harvest from my garden. Since I don’t know how much my husband and I will eat of any given item, I tend, like the squirrels, to err on the side of safety: I have two freezers and three shelves full of preserved foods plus a cache of apples, squashes and potatoes “buried” in my root cellar. I try, however, to avoid to build up fat reserves like the bears, an endeavor which gets tricky during Christmas season, when I engage in a serious effort of holiday baking.
But I’m not unlike wood rats when it comes to home improvement. These rodents seek out materials which they can process (i.e. shred) to cushion their nests, preferably built in prime real estate, that is my woodshed. After all, a safe and comfortable home reduces stress and thus fosters survival. Similarly, I use the wool from my sheep to fill pillowcases, weave blankets, or knit sweaters. I also understand my dog, who—by sleeping on the stairwell landing—taught me to buy him a second bed, even though he has a cushy place in the living room. Like him, I have a couch for evening lounging and a bed for night time sleeping.
Humans share another behavior with animals, namely a hankering for beauty. The male bowerbird spends endless hours searching for special objects and then places its treasures just so, to highlight them to a prospective mate. And yes, when I first visited my future husband’s home, I, like a discerning female bowerbird, paid attention to how he lived, to the pictures on the wall and the colors of furniture and carpet. I was definitely interested in a compatibility of tastes.
Perhaps, most amazingly, some animals are—like us—fascinated by knick-knacks and curios. Octopi are lured by shiny, man-made objects which they hide, dragon-style, in their lair. And the collection habits of pack rats and magpies are proverbial. Maybe when we learn why animals amass items without any discernible biological benefit (at least to our minds,) we’ll be able to better curb our own compulsion to hoard.
Published in Oregon Humanities Magazine's Stuff issue in the summer of 2009.
