Boxes upon boxes fill the basement floor and linger by the staircase. Boxes upon boxes hold our things, carry in them our whole life. Memories of childhood, of college, of our first year together are folded, loaded, and layered over one another forming conspicuous striations of times past. And not just memories are collected here, but the energy of those experiences, hopes and fears, dreams come true, and dreams lost; all there, in the basement and by the staircase.
As I moved about the house remedying the box situation I thought of the ways in which the objects we keep reflect the stories of our life. Who we are now is a collection of these feelings and events of our personal history. But what if that story of our stuff no longer serves? What if I endeavor to hit refresh on my life and begin a bold new chapter. What story would I have to let go of in order to tell the new one?
In practical terms, I asked myself, what objects hold the story I no longer want to tell. So I started a new pile among the box maze. Into it when all Things I Thought I Loved But If I’m Being Honest I Don’t Really and Things Which Don’t Make Me Smile When I Look At Them and Things That Hold Memories of Who I Was That Don’t Support The Me I Am or The Me I’m Trying to Become.
The pile is growing. And I am feeling ecstatic. Like Gulliver I had before found myself immobilized; bound by small and individually insignificant ties. Throwing off the emotional attachments to so many little things has left a wide swath of space. And space makes room for flow, freedom, and fun. These intangibles hold way more value than any tchotchke ever could.