T-14 Days: The Sappiness Sets In

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The packing has begun in earnest.

Every time I move I eventually come across that box sitting in a dusty corner. The one with all the pictures and cards and letters and whatnot from the last decade or so. Somebody goes to the trouble of writing, and I can't just dump it. I'm an emotional pack-rat.

So I toss it all into this box. And the only time I ever look at the contents of the box are when I have to move it to the next place of residence.
Without fail, I end up spending the better part of the evening quasi-randomly browsing through its contents. This is utterly without practical purpose with respect to the move: I know from the start that the box will simply be brought to the next place and stuck in the next dusty corner.

But, well, it draws me in, and I never look in there otherwise despite telling myself that I should 'cuz it's kinda cool. So I spend the evening looking through it to no greater end. I tell myself at the time that, y'know, I'll weed through these heartfelt sentiments and send to the round file those sentiments that just aren't quite heartfelt enough. This is prima facie absurd, but I tell myself this so I feel like I'm, y'know, packing.

This is why it takes me so long to move.

Needless to say, I went through The Box tonight. I think it's especially poignant this time because now the box is destined for our storage unit...it doesn't fit the criterion of Absolutely Essential required to justify shipping it off to New Zealand. So this time I can't look at it properly when I settle in and have the time. Not that I ever would, but I can't.

Combine that with the inevitable emotional roller coaster that accompanies a move like this. The last month or so has involved me realizing how much I like where I am now and how deep the roots go that I've put down here. I fully expected this, so it's not dissuading me, but it's there. The end result, though, is that my senses are heightened so the net effect of such things as The Box is greater.

The first thing that stuck me is the sheer volume of this stuff. When living it in real time, these things come in as a trickle. It's a rare treat to find an actual letter from somebody in the mailbox. Aggregated over a decade-plus, it becomes a formidable pile. I flip through it, surfing the ever-present current of cards and notes and letters from my Mom that I never get around to reciprocating despite all my intentions (twinge of guilt) and seeing on a return address a name from the past. Some I remember fondly still, some I'd virtually forgotten about, some I really struggle to remember at all. Read a few that catch my eye. Jar long-lost memories of entire periods of my life that I'd forgotten, or buried so deeply under other layers that they were as good as forgotten. Realizing for the umpteenth time how much really happens in a day that gets sanded-down and smoothed-over and in the end it feels like I haven't done anything at all.

I get this feeling frequently: the feeling that I used to do so much more with my time compared to my average day now. I looked through my college notebooks (another episode of 'packing') and was astounded to see how much I purportedly knew and how much I actually did during those years of college. Where did that drive go? That productivity? Is my life wasting away now?

No, not really. I have to force myself to think about what I did with today, the intricate paths my brain followed. Somehow this is easier to do looking at evidence from the past than remembering from just today.

But I digress.

What I'm getting at here is that I find a cluster of correspondence from the period of a couple of months or a couple of weeks or a couple of days, and I realize that this person, this person I hardly think of any more and haven't talked to in years, was for that period a bright star in my life. And I'm amazed I could have forgotten that.

Makes me wonder what I've forgotten that happens not to be documented. The top level of my memory is an executive summary, and as with all executive summaries it's largely inadequate.

But I guess that serves a practical purpose. The mind looks for patterns, for broad currents, to create an effective model to represent the world and to represent oneself. It's impractical otherwise.

Anyway, the memories are down there. It's always about the trigger. Amazing what such a trigger can bring back.

I found a picture taken right before taking off from my grandmother's house in North Carolina, when I was heading once again across the country to California. The raindrops remained on my car's hood from the night's efforts. We pose with forced half-smiles. And my mood from that moment comes rushing back...in that hated period of flux where I'm almost gone but not gone yet and not wanting to at the small scale but wanting to at the large scale. Like conflicting forces of naturegravity inoxerably pulling me away with a more immediate magnetism trying to keep me there. And so then I get in the car and put it in first and out the driveway and into second and third and down the highway and onto the freeway and a couple of state borders away before the opposing forces finally equalize and then tilt in favor of the gravity pulling me westward. Back out on my own, living what I want to live, the questions of why I want to live that when I'm leaving something great behind fading enough to ignore for awhile.

My Mom has always said that she aimed to "give me roots and give me wings." I've joked that it sounds cruel, like a bird straining to fly against its anchors in the ground.

It's not entirely a joke.

But travelwings in the most literal senseis quite important to me. Where I've been and where I've lived frames my life. When I talk to somebody for the first time in some months and the inevitable "whatcha been up to?" question comes along, it's always the trips I've taken that come out first.

At other points in my life I wondered if I moved to flee something. What was I running from? Now with the angst of my late teens and early twenties behind me, I don't feel that anymore. This move feels like I'm heading toward something. I'm not unhappy with where I am; I just want something different for awhile. To go to another place where I'll set down more roots that I'll have to tear up again.

If I weren't going I'd instead be staring down a road proceeding straight to the horizon and lamenting the decision not to take that turn off. The grass is greener, as they say.

This has rambled on for longer than intended. I'll hit the publish button now before I have a chance to think otherwise. The packing will continue and we'll be off and the gravity of our lives will again overcome the short-distance forces of this life here.

And it will be great.

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Comments

[Brad]

Never knew you were so literate...
I'm impressed. You and I have worked together (two different companies?), but I don't think I've ever read anythng you've written longer than a short e-mail. You're a far better writer than I had expected. Perhaps expected is the wrong word, I don't think I've ever thought about what kind of a writer you would be (If I ever read your writings), it's just not something I generally ponder about the people I know. Still, for whatever reason, I feel I've found a facet of you that I never knew existed. Anyway, I'll going to have to add your blog to my follow list. Maybe I'll actually setup RSS! I look forward to hearing about Guatemalla. Take care, Brad

[Sarah]

Moving abroad is tough but well worth it!
One thing I was very happy to recieve about three months after my landing in Switzerland, was that box of things from home (those things that are not a necessity). Once those things arrived, the feeling of sick of missing home started to subside for the first time. They may be just letters or photos or an old yearbook or gift from grandma, but it is what keeps me rooted even when I am so far away from home. good luck guys! now I have an excuse to visit New Zealand! :-)