I'm sitting now in her apartment, full of journals and notes, letters and postcards or thousands of books, every one of which she'd read and often scribbled her thoughts in. It's not just stuff. It's, it's memories. Her memories and mine. It's evidence of my brother's life and my dad's-- of their existence. That they were here. That they mattered. It's all the people they knew, whom I knew. They're alive in these things and holding them and going through them. I feel their presence again. And I love that. But what do I do with all these things?
- Anderson Cooper (reflecting, as he opens his podcast series on grief, by grounding us in how he's processing sorting through his mother’s possessions)
by Ada Limón
In the past three months, amid our preparations to move overseas, I’ve been internally grappling with my relationship to stuff. As an American, I believe we frequently contemplate materialism and our consumption habits, going so far as to create narratives that become a part of our identities. We dub ourselves minimalists, maximalists, sustainable consumers, upcyclists, and mindful or conscientious consumers.
When we learned of our move to New Zealand, Charlie and I faced the daunting task of stepping back and looking squarely at all of our things and deciding what to do with them. His work offered a relocation package, but it wasn’t commensurate to a full military or foreign service officer pack-out. Shipping costs made us realize we had to choose between shipping a few crates or bringing everything in suitcases, and we ultimately opted for the latter.
After coming to that realization, there were a few weeks of packing up during which I found myself walking around the house, sentimentally gazing at the most random of things. You’d find me in the corner of my son’s room, wistfully spinning my kids Orboot learning globe with deep longing, knowing it wouldn’t make the packing cut. I’d scan and survey the numerous trinkets on my dresser, pondering which one to two items to pack versus which to leave behind. I even opened all the cabinets in our dining room hutch and stared for hours at the craft supplies and learning materials which had proven invaluable during the countless days of at-home learning during the pandemic fog.
As I grappled with all the unexpected emotions tied to our belongings, I would burst into the kitchen and question Charlie emphatically “but WHEN did I become such a capitalist?!” Here I was, thinking I’d adopted a Marie-Kondo minimalist philosophy in our smaller home in DC. But yet, when it came time to transition, I found myself startled by how much we’d acquired over our five years there. Even more surprising was how attached I’d become to all.the.things. Although I knew that many of the toys we were passing on were from the baby/toddler years and that we wouldn't need them upon our return, I longed to box some up and keep them for future years—perhaps when friends visited or decades later when I had grandchildren of my own. However, I recognized that holding things so closely wouldn’t allow me to remain there, in that season, no matter how hard it was to move on.
Amid these realizations, I was reminded of the words of Anderson Cooper in his podcast episode about sorting through his deceased mother's possessions: "It's not just stuff. It's, it's memories. Her memories and mine. It's evidence of my brother's life and my dad's-- of their existence. That they were here. That they mattered “
Packing up made me rediscover the power that our possessions can hold. They can take on a life of their own – become imbued with our memories – so that when we touch them, they elicit the power of memory – a recollection of the laughter when a child played with them, or the vibrancy that they brought into a kitchen or dining room in our childhood home. Their permanence and presence are gifts in their own right.
During one day of the packing process, a dear friend came over to help me with an initial round of purging. We spent hours sorting through piles and getting rid of things, but then she saw my garage, which was chock-a-block full of storage boxes. Her eyes widened as we walked into my room, and I felt myself initially embarrassed. But then, slowly and quietly, I found myself sharing something powerful that I needed to say—to her and to myself. "I know it looks like a lot, but Charlie and I have buried two of our parents. So much of what's here are boxes of their memories. It’s likely that your family likely has this too, but you're fortunate enough that it's all currently kept in your parents’ homes.”
In verbalizing this, I not only addressed my insecurity about holding on to some miscellaneous memento boxes, but I reached an acceptance that it was okay – was good – to do so. It brought me a sense of freedom. Following this, as Charlie and I continued to pare down over the past few months, our hands passed through boxes of my mother's journals, school yearbooks, old notes from friends, countless loose photos, or my father-in-law's patches for his letterman jacket, clipped news articles, and diplomas. I realized the importance of the few remaining boxes. This connects back to Limon's poem—the push and pull as we dream of defining who we are, especially in terms of leaving or staying.
During the move preparations, there were moments of exasperation in which I joked with friends about wanting to “burn it all down” instead of putting myself through the tedium, joys and pains, of sorting through everything and deciding what to hold on to and what to let go of. However, I’ve come to understand a freedom now in knowing that “fixing our problems with prayer and property” isn’t as simple as patly self- labeling as a minimalist who regularly purges or pretends not to care about stuff. It isn't easily solved or even magically altered from the paring back that comes from a move abroad.
No matter the broader philosophies we contemplate and cling to regarding possessions - our things – the things we carry, the things we hold close – hold our memories. They form an integral part of our sense of home. So, even as we leave much in storage and have cut back what we’ve brought overseas, I’ve grown grateful for the chance to rediscover there is a beautiful simplicity in our relationship to the things we cling to and the memories they hold.
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