Saturday is a our moving day, and we have spent quite a bit of time packing and organizing our home. Last night I carried most of the smaller items from upstairs into our garage. The less up and down we have to do, the better.
Today and tomorrow I hope to move everything up from the basement. This will keep everything we own on one level, speeding along the moving process.
I spent a good deal of my time carrying boxes last night that I was tempted to just chuck into the donation pile. I’ve grown less and less attached to my own possessions the more I think about moving them, and especially when I think about asking other people to move them. I kept asking myself, “Is this important enough to ask someone else to move it for me?” Many of my old history books did not survive this question.
If only I could remember that I may end up having to move an item one day before I purchase it, then I would probably restrain myself more often when out in a store.
But in the midst of the books and other items we haven’t used so much, there are some precious memories I dug up. For example, our photo albums were all boxed up, which was a reminder to give them a look sometime in the near future.
I also uncovered my Master of Divinity hood in a pile of clothes that I was planning on sending to the thrift store. It’s almost like I’ve uncovered another life I used to live, or possibly another person I used to know.
Moving brings about an odd look at the past through artifacts. It reveals where we come from and hints at who we have become. It’s a time of discovery that is both creepy and wonderful.