If you’ll permit me, I’m going to wax sentimental a little bit. Last week I moved to a new apartment. As I was packing I, like most people, began to sift through my clothes, furniture, and accessories, and make a little donation pile for my local Goodwill. Some of the things I’d barely used. Others had definitely seen better days because I used them too much. I tried to quickly sort through everything and not get caught up in the memories associated with different items, but isn’t that what always happens? And I happen to be the queen of sentimentality to begin with.
Is this unnatural attachment to “things” materialistic? Maybe. But I’ll still go with “sentimental.” That's deeper anyway. Here are a couple of examples:
It was with no small amount of reservation that I donated my black tote. Mind you, this thing is ratty. The entire middle divider is torn out, one of the arm handles pops off, etc. But for all the wear and tear, this is the black tote my mother bought me at Target my freshman year. This black tote faithfully lugged enormous English anthologies to North Campus before there were buses. This tote was my main accessory for four years, the unsung hero of my college success. Putting it in the Goodwill pile was kind of rough.
Then came the dorm pillow. When I first picked it up I didn’t think I’d have any trouble; the style is so high school, the sequins on the front were falling off, it really belonged in the trash. Then I made the mistake of turning it over. The material on the back of this little pillow is quite a sight: discolored, stained, and worn. I’d forgotten how much that pillow had witnessed, how many nights I buried my face in the back and prayed out of joy and misery, for hours until I finally slept. I looked closely and saw the black mascara/tear stains from my first breakup. I remember that night (which for a girl must be the worst of all nights), lost and outside of myself, curled up in bed, crying into that little pillow, and thinking that if there were one moment in my life when it would be possible to die of sadness, that would be it. So on that pillow I loved and cried and waited to be put out of my misery. Call it melodramatic but when you’re 18 a pebble crushes like a boulder. Before I could stop it, a flood of attachment formed between me, and this out-of-style little throw pillow.
I began to wonder if I really could part with these things that had seen so much of me… and then I remembered this illustrated Pilgrim’s Progress from when I was little. I remember seeing Christian with that big burden on his back, of past challenges and sorrows. I don’t want that to be me. So I put those things in the Goodwill pile, and realized for the first time how extremely different I am now. Before I remember feeling like such a baby, and knowing so little. I’m sure one day I’ll think the same about where I am now, but it’s not the time for that. One day I’ll make a Goodwill pile full of things from this stage of life, but right now is the time to make memories with what I have, and leave the old baggage behind. My new moving mantra: Downsize.
