In the last two years or so, I have packed up everything I own and moved to a new place about every six months. I don’t have many belongings and, until this time last year, I had none of my own furniture. Most of my things are in storage awaiting my next move. I was a dorm person in undergrad, moving in and out with the academic calendar. I’ve lived in Michigan the last two summers, Europe last spring. In the fall, I’m moving again. It’s been years since I’ve had a permanent place to keep my things, or a place to visit them.
I think I miss my stuff.
My aimless efforts to pack my personal library, May 2024.
I am becoming increasingly overwhelmed with our culture’s dejection of tangible, physical media. DVDs, music, books, photographs, and other forms of art have become increasingly more consumable, but at the risk of losing personal ownership. I can have access to any movie ever made, but I have to pay 5.99 a month for it (and it’s never really mine). Although I understand the necessary desire to consume less, I cannot replicate my dad’s case of CDs from college with my Spotify album library. I also cannot flip through my camera roll like I can meticulously, carefully examine the treasures of my baby album or my mom’s high school yearbooks. In ten, fifteen, twenty years, what stuff will bring me pause, inspiration? How intentional do I need to be about keeping things? And where is it all supposed to go, by the way?
When I was a kid, I used to try and bring something that reminded me of home anytime I was on a long trip. I got homesick really easily (and do still), but if I had a toy, a doll, or a book with me that maintained the essence of my house, I was comforted. The peace and familiarity of home were transferable, captured in my beloved treasures.
On every move I’ve made in the last two years, I’ve tried to recreate this childlike comfort, selecting what I can bring along and what will have to remain in a box. I find myself inclined to hold onto bits and pieces of my life that can be packed down, loaded into a duffel bag or a suitcase. Even better, my backpack or my purse. I keep a polaroid photo of my boyfriend with me wherever I go, tucked between my debit card and driver’s license. Often, receipts and other paper scraps (a post-it, a sticker) will also find their way among my wallet’s faded leather.
From an NPR article I adore, titled “A librarian collects all the things left in books - from love letters to old photos.”
Pens are another thing. Bookmarks, too. Bus tickets, coins of a useless currency. The sorts of things I feel I need a “catch-all” dish for. I have to empty my pockets before running laundry or I risk a lip gloss staining my socks and underwear, or loose ribbons lost to the lint trap. I hold onto these sorts of things without thinking too much about them, something about the act of collecting and gathering that won’t allow me to let them go.
Somewhere I have a box of post-cards from my travels, each dated and catalogued. Among them, holy cards from churches and basilicas across Italy. Notes, too, and old coursework. I kept every piece of writing from my time in Rome, every worksheet and handout. I even kept the receipt from the occasion of my first Aperol spritz. One of my dear friends bought me a lemon soap from Capri. I know exactly where to look for it, if I ever fully unpack.
I have several copies of “East of Eden” and “As I Lay Dying,” in case I ever need to lend out a copy. My collection of green and red Loebs has begun to grow enormously, not unlike the rest of my personal library. I was gifted an embosser this Christmas and think often of the 5 or 6 cardboard boxes full of books waiting for me in storage with my name imprinted on the cover page. I thrifted a copy of “Gaudy Night” last winter because it reminds me of my dad. I don’t know if I’ll ever read it, but I have it. It belongs to me.
My Pinterest feed has picked up on all of this, recommending gallery walls, thrifted-gingham cork boards, homemade fridge magnets, and towering book stacks. My dilemma is that my collection of treasures is out of sight, not useful for much more than serving as one box in a sea of many. There isn’t much aesthetically pleasing about the whole thing. In fact, the constant push to do something with all of it, put on a show, almost makes me feel as if I need to buy more.
I find myself wondering about how my stuff is doing and looking forward to seeing it again, that constant act of observation. The Sisyphean cycle of packing, unpacking, and packing again that comes upon me far too often is not a match for how much I cherish the presence of my stuff. Perhaps it’s the childlike desire to preserve fragments of home for moments of homesickness, or the thoughts of passing my favorite garments down to my own children. I often imagine the museum of my life that is currently deconstructed in boxes, waiting to be revitalized. It’s fragmentary and much of it has been forgotten. So many things of mine will be forgotten. I think what matters is that they were there, if only once.
Beautiful beautiful! Such lovely writing. I think about this so so much, especially when it comes to how my living spaces look and feel, and how I feel they're supposed to be a reflection of myself, somehow. Now that I live somewhere that feels more stable, I've begun the process of fully unpacking all of my books, wall stuff, trinkets, and treasures. It's felt good to finally have it all with me, but I think it'll be a long time before everything has a place that feels right. This is a nice reminder of why all my stuff feels so important to me, and that it's okay if it's not displayed to perfection.
Beautiful as always.