I hope that by the time I’m carted off to the nursing home or when I take my last breath and keel over, I will have culled my possessions down to a small, curated collection of only meaningful things. Might happen. Might not. But I am on my way.
Slowly I have been ridding myself of things that no longer mean much to me. Item by item, I decide what stays — and what goes.
In the past year I have said good-bye to 40-year-old high school crap, including 3 yearbooks (I kept senior year.), homecoming buttons, my religion class collage of the biblical story of Ruth, and my physics term paper on magnetohydrodynamics. (I once knew what that was.) I’ve thrown away college essays, as well as my graduate school commencement program (since I didn’t attend the ceremony, anyway). I’ve ditched diaries and journals, news clippings, duplicate photographs, and long-saved greeting cards. These items were important to me once, but their significance faded long ago. That I’ve kept them this long is as much from inertia as nostalgia.
As I analyze my remaining ephemera (and there’s a lot of it), I wonder what compelled me to keep this stuff in the first place, and as I handle each item, what obliges me to keep it now. I don’t look at any of it very often. Does it comfort me somehow just knowing it’s there, up in the attic bedroom stashed away in an old footlocker and my mother’s suitcase? Or is it simply easier to close the trunk and shut the case than confront these physical remnants of my past? The answer, I suspect, is a bit of both.
But I am committed to removing the baggage from my luggage, as I search for the meaning in my things.