Moving introspection.

Another Monday, another day in the cube. Though I’m not complaining much here – if I wasn’t at work I’d be home among boxes my half-packed apartment. Not to mention the looming stack of paper which needs sorting. At least I’m down to the “important” paper, but still there is a lot of it to be sifted for the gems which must be filed while the rest gets shredded.

And I’m trying to be ruthless this time – since I don’t plan to move again for several years (decades hopefully) – it seems to be the ripe time to get rid of the belongings I have carted around “just because”. My wedding dress from my failed marriage for example. Stereo speakers I ceased using five years ago. Craft supplies that haven’t seen the light of day since I moved back from the Sunshine Coast. Books that I am never going to read. Floor cushions that have crammed at the back of my storage closet. Etcetera, etcetera – I’m sure you all know about it because we are part of a culture with a tendency to hoard and consume, a civilization built on the detrius of who we used to be when we bought this or that item. Purchases being a part of our identity, it is difficult to let go of the past in the form of a piece of clothing or picture-decoration we once loved, but it is impossible to hold onto it all as well.

For the most part, I have not overcluttered my life with things, and the only collection I own is the wall of books, now safely packed away in 20 or so boxes awaiting their move to the new home – but even still there is a lot of life re-examining that goes on with each and every decision in a move. Does this go? Does it not? What does it say about me that I don’t want to do xxx anymore? Am I torching my past if I let go of yyy? What was I thinking when I did or bought this thing? Am I an overconsumer even though I try not to be? And then of course the guilt sets in. All the paper, all the things going into the landfill, all the broken electronics that will end up getting shipped to china for recycling. It’s just too much for me.

This is the twelfth time I’ve moved in eighteen years, and as I was saying to Brian last night, it never gets easier or more fun or faster – but as I get older it provokes a lot more soul-searching. Particularly in the past move where I have moved with no reason other than my own individual desire to move – then you really start to grill yourself on what’s going on and whether you are doing the right thing. At least this time I know why I am moving and I know that it’s the right thing. But it still doesn’t stop my existential consumer angst, my growing older why do I own so much stuff ennui, my change of address one more fucking time crisis. Nope. Moving sucks for all these reasons.

However.

The flip side is a clean start, a new home, an organized bookshelf, nice clean cupboards that are well appointed and set out right, a new bedspread maybe, a new way for my furniture to occupy space, a new yard to work in, and a different view on the neighbourhood and north shore mountains. Not to mention a life joined with my partner’s, and a home we own together. And so, as with every move it’s important to keep that perspective in the midst of the ennui and angst, the crisis of remembering one more phone number. And it’s only 19 sleeps until I stop asking myself those difficult questions, and turn my attention instead to the business of resetting my life one more time.

I am glad to be rid of the wedding dress finally, the unused craft supplies are next to go.