Moving house is one of those terrible activities one has to do from time to time. In 1994 I swore I would never do it again. Having moved every two to three years as a family based at Royal Air Force bases around the world and the UK, I never admired those same difficulties facing the diplomatic corps when I worked in that environment, part and parcel of the job.
So over 60 boxes packed, a whole load of furniture, a cat, a dog and a business to relocate to boot. Our new home is smaller so much weeding had to be done. I was perplexed, I had just weeded my precious belongings three years prior. Into the box they went. Nothing like moving with a Libran!
Settling in always takes time, but I think moving one’s belongings becomes more than just a move. It is symbolic. Every box re-opened as if you never packed those things inside. The sigh of amazement on my face as I fell upon yet another special book, dvd, ornament or pair of shorts titter!
If you stand back. Look at what you have accumulated in your life and why. What does it all mean when you can toss something in the trash but refuse to relinquish something else? All of these items, they are not material possessions they are hard earned money spent on something that gave/gives me pleasure. They hold a memory (well most do I guess), they represent a moment in time in one’s life good, bad, tragic, delirious or indifferent. How hard to erase a memory or a phase.
But space is in short supply so weeding what I want around me to what can stay in the garage takes on a whole new meaning. How do you rate what stays outside or comes in? What part of one’s life gets relegated even though it makes you smile, makes you comfortable, makes you cry? What comes inside to keep you delighted, to remind you of from where you travelled? To remind you of your journey, past and future? What sits on your desk, your bedside pedestal, your bookcase, your wall? Decisions, decisions and reflections of how all these things came into my life and how do I make them stay if they are in a box next to my car? Maybe some deserve to be near the backyard, maybe some don’t.
Amongst all theses boxes and introspection the chaubs burst force, the fever blisters tingled from the stress of packing tape. The energy levels slumped, the mind became a mangle. Yes 25 boxes still to go sigh. Two weeks down and the cars now fit into the garage, parked carefully in-between the peaks of the cardboard and plastic Himalayas. I hope there is no recycling avalanche, I love my car!
It’s strange, when you enjoy all the satisfaction of the printed word, the recorded music, the produced film, and all the trinkets from exploring your being via travel coupled with your heart’s emotive blanket – you like to have those comforts around. As you get older space becomes the arrow that cupid lost, aimed at some part of you that needs relocating.
You’ll find me on the patio, under my shades. Looking back a bit with one eye on the future still enjoying the artistic company. Still breathing.