jumpers for books

Stuff: Whence does it all come?

Packing is a task that seems to be complained about more often than praised... it is viewed as a chore, really. But to tell the truth, it is one of my favorite activities. I always get excited about packing, so I usually start a week or two too early. This is especially true of the process when the end goal is a drastic move. Before moving to the UK I had a garage sale and ended up selling or giving away a third of what I owned: there is just something good about starting new, fresh. Something good in shedding off the frivolous stuff that has piled up, and giving it to someone who might actually want or use it. There is something good in the limits enforced by a move: they cause one to part with material items to which an attachment would have been (unjustly) justified in other, less transient circumstances. Something good in a move.

With this move I have, likewise, created four piles: 'recycle', 'charity shop', 'Cambria', and 'Emmanuel Road house'. (The Cambria pile contains various items that might be of use to her in London, and will make their way south on Saturday). It has been good to fill these piles: I feel like I am leaving behind little bits of my physical existence in this place and taking back with me only the items that have meaning and/or use. (But no doubt my cases will still be heavy: the category that always seems to win the meaning/use game is books. I have found myself sacrificing jumpers for French histories).

So, the main conclusion of this post is thus: packing is good. It is good to once in a while be forced to lift and shift all of our physical belongings, to remind us just how much we have and to encourage us to part with items and allow them to have a second life.