The majority of our spiritual leaders had nothing. Or if they had stuff, they gave it away. Jesus, Ghandi, the Dalai Lama were known for the little they had. They did not build massive churches, erect huge edifices or pour vast statues of themselves. They were not commercial. They did not need‘ stuff’. Stuff was the stuff that got in the way of the real stuff. We all know that. We all know that to truly be oneself, one has to shed belongings and find the true path, preferably without designer gear, cool wheels and the latest iPad.

We know that, but to lose the stuff you have is not so easy, especially when it is not done on a voluntary basis. I wouldn’ t have minded if I had chosen to give away my worldly goods, shave a tonsure on my head, don a hairsuit and walk the pavements. If I had chosen? I mean, if I had chosen then I would have felt sanctimonious, cool and really, really special. I think I might have even walked on water!

Freedom definitely comes from giving away your stuff and relying on your core. But what if you didn’ t choose to give it away and it is taken anyway? Is that called being robbed, mugged or just recessed( as in recession)?

So when I lost all my possessions, one by one, then the rest in a great big flood of things, I stood in the receding wake like a tsunami victim. Waving not drowning, yet I was drowning in the loss. I thought my world had come to an end. A commercial end- and me with it.

But I learnt two very important things after my own personal tsunami-letting of goods. The first is that things are not important. I knew that before. I was never very‘ brand’ focused before, preferring shoddy to chic. Shabby-chic I called it. My ex called it cheap as chips- that is just one of the reasons he is my ex. But going from not being particularly bothered about things to not having them at all is a pretty emotional experience. I minded less the loss than the fact that my two children were unprotected and vulnerable. Losing for me was tough, but I felt losing for them was devastating. Not that they complained but I felt such the inadequate parent. They never moaned or asked for things out of the ordinary, and indeed often spent their own birthday money on necessities such was their acceptance of our combined financial stress.

I’ d like to say at this point it was cathartic, but I can’ t. I did not choose to lose my worldly goods, such as they were, and I did not feel the better for their loss. Quite the opposite. Guilt was strapped onto me tight as a backpack. I fretted over shoes for the children, tickets for outings, monthly shopping bills. I agonised over meeting friends over wine, but I still did it, and agonised all the more afterwards. What? You bad mother you, that bottle of wine would have bought face wipes, stewing meat, insert whatever six euro substitute you can find. Someone may have said once that life is too short to drink bad wine. I’ d answer and say you drink to your price range and now, yes, I was cheap as chips.

Knowing that things were not important allowed me to let go of the big things in my life, my home, my life savings, my security. But knowing I had children meant I had guilt every step of the way. I thought, frequently, if I were sick or they needed an operation, what would happen. Or even if they wanted something frivolous, what would happen. Oh, how easily your expectations are cut short and curtailed like the clipped wing on a bird of prey.

But I always knew things are not important. If I won the lottery in the morning, I would not go out and buy stuff. In fact, and very ironically, my ex and used to fight over imaginary lottery wins as I would threaten to give away at least two thirds of it – but this was fictional winnings, maybe I might have been a lot greedier with the real stuff. I think, however, if I did win the lottery now, I might pop into Primark and