I've moved eleven times since May 2011.
That's hard to believe.
What went on during the past two years is really confusing, so quite frankly, I'll spare you from the explanation. The point of bringing up my moves is to say that I've had the chance to go through my "things" eleven times, and then make the judgment as whether or not that thing will make that move, or if I will get rid of said thing.
It's really hard for me to get rid of things.
Not hoarder status or anything, but ever since I was in junior high, I just always felt like everything was significant and that I will, one day, want that thing again, or I will want to be reminded of that memory that the thing invokes.
I still have everything from my past. Or at least the important things. I think my original assumption was that my parents will live in this home, my home in Artesia, forever. And I will keep these things here, and when I come home, I will have the chance to occasionally sift through these things and memories and be consumed with nostalgia, which is what is supposed to happen when you visit your childhood home/parents' house as an adult, right? Well, that didn't happen, because my parents moved from my childhood home.
The most recent, and perhaps most reflective time, just happened last month when I moved from my parents' house in Midland to my new house here in Albuquerque. Luckily, I had the chance to go through my stuff in its entirety and decide what to keep, what to get rid of, and what to bring with me to Albuquerque, and what to leave at my parents' house in Midland (thanks Mom and Dad). I spent close to two weeks going through all this stuff, which gave me the time to go through boxes from my childhood, my teenage years, as well as my college years.
For the majority of the past two years, most of my stuff from my childhood home in Artesia have been in boxes in storage that I have not had the chance to access until last month. A lot about me has changed in my last two years of adulthood. So, when I was reunited and confronted with certain things and memories, my feelings on these things and memories had evolved into something completely different than I ever expected .
I found way too many things that remind me of way too many things. Things tend to stay the same as the way you left them when life was different. I'm not sure if I think this is a harsh reality that your life has changed or a refreshing fantasy that you can relive the past.
When I committed to moving to Albuquerque, my parents made me go through the mountain range of boxes that was my accumulation of 24 years of stuff. I procrastinated the task for days because 1) it was July in Midland and all my stuff was stacked in the garage among a layer of dirt and 112 degree heat and 2) I knew that I wasn't ready to see all those memories just yet. But, my parents made me do it anyway.
I was quickly confronted with two decades of keepsakes from travel, knickknacks from my early childhood nursery, yearbooks, class photos, hundreds of photos taken by myself from age 12-18, old love letters, old friend letters (before the days of texting), six years of every single school assignment (very neatly and impeccably organized), and various things that I once thought were the most important things in high school like my dried-up corsage from prom and my date's crumbling boutonniere. You know, things that matter. Or they did to me then, and quite honestly, they do now, too, as much as I know my dad is tired of having (and hauling around!) all my "things" in his house.
I made progress. One of the recurring conversations my mother and I have had during these near-dozen moves we've made is how liberating it is to get rid of "stuff." Yes, that's true. There is still a lot that I can't bring myself to get rid of (My dad is thinking, "Yeah... six years of school assignments would be a good place to start!), but I was able to let go of some things. Now, a month later, I am proud of myself for letting go of some memories, or emptying the metaphorical and physical luggage that I've been carrying around for so long.
I finally forced a drawer of memories from an old love that started when I was seventeen-years-old to the curb. I was able to donate two boxes of his clothes to a local clothing bank, thus rescuing myself from the temptation of dressing myself in these whenever I was sad. These clothes have been overstaying their welcome in my various closets for the past six years. It might sound silly to you, but if you know me, you know that that is progress.
One of the greatest thoughts that came to me as I was going through my things was the idea of forgiveness. And that perhaps getting rid of some of my things/memories was really about forgiveness. Forgiveness is an interesting game. Sometimes it is difficult to distinguish whether we are waiting for someone to forgive us, or we are trying to forgive ourselves, or if we are trying to forgive someone else. Some of the memories I was confronted with were entirely just that--remnants of a forgotten game of forgiveness. It is intriguing how we entrap ourselves either way, feeling like the book is still wide open until some external factor (like moving and being forced to face your things) sets things right, when really we can close the book any time we want. It took a sweaty, dusty, teary-eyed me sitting in the garage to finally let go and forgive.
It all makes me think about the people in our lives who have no idea that they contribute so much to our lives and our past and who we are today because of them. There are so many friends and people in my past who have taught me so much and they probably don't even know it. There are so many memories that I've been harboring, and the people involved in the memories aren't even part of my life anymore just from innocent drifting away and moving on with life. Sometimes people make their contributions to your life and then they leave. It also makes me wonder what things I may have contributed to someone's memory mountain in their garage. We almost inevitably keep small reminders of these people, mere tokens of their existence relevant to whatever small role they may have played in the grand scheme that is our life.
The sentimentality of things isn't pointless then, I suppose. I remember sitting on my floor with years of things spread out all around me and sending an overwhelmed text to my friend Logan saying something about wishing it would all just disappear. I don't really want that. It all means something, or at least meant something at the time. Some people and experiences are there to take us for a ride. What we do with those memories are up to us. I've chosen to retain them and make them glorified images of my past, sometimes to later realize that it is time to let that one go.
It is interesting how most of the keepsakes we hold refer to experiences that we had, while some of them point to things that never actually happened, and they were never intended to be "keepsakes" in the first place.
They are the cliffhangers. The intentions that got cut short of becoming actions. The half-written story that we read through years later and wonder what we had in mind for the ending back when it was a work in progress.
Or maybe we hadn't even thought about the ending at all. Maybe we just didn't like to end stories.
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