I have been in four English cities in a week- and I'm leaving for another one (Nottingham) this afternoon. Gloucester is on the itinerary for tomorrow, Cardiff (Wales) on Sunday, and Torquay on Monday.
Prior to all this though, I somehow managed to pack up my life (complete with goods collected from storage units in Manhattan and Miami) and move everything over to England. I have a few bags in Michael’s father’s house- even more stuff in his mother’s house- and the remainder is either with me (please see: “pack mule”) or strewn around Michael’s car and flat.
As sad as this sounds- my worldly goods are all in closer range of one another then they have been for years.
Now begs the question: “how am I going to get everything to Spain?” but that’s the least of my worries.
I’m not complaining- I’m just stating a fact. A fact that has made me reconsider having “things.” I’ve been robbed before- after a move to Mexico City where the apartment I was living in was ransacked and raided. I’ve had bags lost on airlines- where the monetary compensation doesn’t even come close to the value (financial and emotional) of the items I lost. Yet still- here I am, dragging my belongings behind me to every city I am in- paying extra to fly them on airlines who have cut costs by charging for anything more than carryon bags- and breaking my back shouldering the weight of vestiges of my life relegated to pieces of cloth and trinkets collected throughout my travels.
My sincere thought- right now- and every time I pack or unpack a box/suitcase/car, is- WHY BOTHER? It’s just stuff, right? Stuff that eventually goes out of style or loses its meaning. Stuff that is really just stuff- that when I die (not to be morbid or anything) will be left behind and eventually sold for pennies in an estate sale- or passed on to a family member who will leave it behind when its their turn to pack it in (so to speak).
But then again, it’s MY stuff- a collection has never been repeated and could never be replaced- a history of my life told through tangible possessions that mean nothing to anyone- but everything to me.
Thus, I have found myself once more- hauling luggage and causing myself excessive amounts of worry, while collecting and dividing winter clothes from summer clothes- important photos from “sort-of important” photos- current journals from recent and ancient journals- and deciding on what to leave, what to take, and where I should leave what is being left and for how long. And so continues the trail of stuff I’m always leaving behind…in case I lose my way home on my way to finding a new one.