Packing it in



        I spent a good portion of last week packing my belongings into boxes of various shapes and sizes. Each dreaded move usually follows the same progression, with the initial effort to pack similar items together in labeled boxes later becoming the hurried tossing of random items into trash bags.
        My guess would be that no one actually enjoys the moving process. It interrupts the normal flow of our life, reminding us that more changes will follow. Last week, I felt somewhat restless as the boxes piled up and my roommate–who got her act together before me and therefore moved most of her things out before me–took down framed photographs from the walls in her room, making the space far too white. 
        Depending on the circumstances, moving can be exciting or it can be a drag. I remember the move to college as one of those exciting events as it was a precursor to freedom. To prepare, I went to all of the stores that advertised their stock of dorm essentials. Of course, I bought way too much and couldn't fit half of it in the small, L-shaped room.
        Packing up each May meant an end to the freedom, saying goodbye to friends and finding a summer job, but you knew before too long you would be back in class wishing it was still summer.
        When my friends and I left the shelter of the dorms for on campus apartments, moving again became something to look forward to. Not yet burdened by maintenance issues, neglectful landlords and cable bills, we relished the idea of having living rooms and kitchens.
        Somewhere along the way, the boxes of music posters and white Christmas lights–a decorating staple for college students–transformed into boxes of pots and pans and miscellaneous appliances. I still find it humorous that now I have dish sets, which are made up of mismatched pieces from other sets. With my lack of domestic skills, a quality, matching dish set is in the distant future. 
     Seeing your life summed up in boxes causes one to reflect. As I pack photo albums or a yearbook, I pause to think about the people and the places in the photos or I go back and read the wacky messages in the yearbooks. At one point, the inside jokes were hilarious and repeated often, but now it's hard to remember what they refer to. 
     I always go into a move thinking I have far fewer belongings than I actually do and I am always surprised at all of the "stuff" I have acquired along the way. Despite my resistance to define myself by material possessions, I can't help but think that the piles of things represent to some extent where I have been up to this point.
  Sometimes I wonder if I had to, could I give it all up? Would I survive in a nomadic culture or would they leave me behind while I was packing summer clothes in one box and winter clothes in another?