I have stuff.
Childhood books, cheap little presents the children bought us, like a pottery otter, a red rose ( now devoid of colour) and of course untold books, always two or three on the go at the same time, depending on my mood, so I go from very easy read to quite heavy stuff . I have ornaments and flowers from the garden, knitting and my paints. Projects (preserving autumn leaves at the moment) on the go. Far too many clothes.
And of course my beloved dog, although he definitely isn’t stuff, he is a person in his own right with his own stuff, like mick the monkey, and his day bed downstairs and his night bed upstairs.
My garden is the same, stuffed full of plants, and littered with bird seed dropped from the feeders.
I have a friend whose house is entirely empty of clutter. Every surface is empty, every wall is bare. Dusting must be a dream. Everything is white or cream, and I feel like Mrs Bucket’s neighbour when I go for coffee or afternoon tea. Shoes off at the door and stockinged feet for the duration of the visit?.It is pristine and clean to an inch of its life. Flowers stand upright and are cleared as soon as the slightest sign of decay.
Both of us living the life we prefer. Nothing wrong with either.