I’ve been packing “things.”
Newspaper clips that carry my byline.
Race bibs and medals.
Old letters from friends.
They are all things, really… little scraps that mean nothing to anyone but me.
Have you ever wondered about that? What someone going through all your “stuff” would think of it all?
I’m usually ruthless with “things.” I am the person who donates or throws away something if I haven’t used it in the last year.
But there are some bits that have such an important memory attached that the thought of getting rid of it or not bringing it to a new place I’ll call home seems downright overwhelming.
The logical part of my brain says “it’s just STUFF, Elizabeth. You don’t need STUFF.”
And for the most part, that’s true. Stuff is stuff. But the reason we hang on to stuff is because it symbolizes a moment in time that shaped us in some way — big or small.
Why do I think that holding on to something physical is somehow going to preserve a memory more?
I downsize and purge every time I move, and yet, there seems to always be little things of which I cannot let go.
A memory is a memory. A moment is a moment.
I think that’s why I became a writer; I am always trying to catalog and hold on to moments.