Since I never really unpacked much of the stuff I moved down from Boston 2 years ago, sifting through my various boxes has thrown me full-force into a wall of complex emotions. To name a few: frustration, relief, glee, shame, and wonder.
Frankly, I'm somewhat shocked that this exercise produced any reaction in me other than mere exhaustion. I've never been all that tethered to things. I would much rather sacrifice nostalgia for convenience and buy everything I need off Craigslist than carefully port my furniture from apartment to apartment as I move up and down the east coast. Since I do move so often, I don't hold on to much that doesn't yield a particular sentimental or utilitarian value.
And yet! This moving process hasn't been without its own redeeming attributes. I've:
- found lost keys to locked boxes of things I thought I'd eventually have to blow up with a stick of dynamite, wile e. coyote style.
- read many, many old letters--byproducts of my 16-year relationship with the united states postal service--and taken note of some of the ways in which my friendships have changed through the years.
- remembered that I am a hopeless paper packrat. I just can't/don't throw out bank statements, insurance policies that have long since expired, or receipts for items I've since sold (on Craigslist). I live as if I'm one step away from a life audit wherein I'd be asked for documented proof of my participation in the capitalist juggernaut. It's such a dumb (and heavy) approach to self-organization.
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