The Act of Sorting

There is a peculiar discomfort in relocating to a foreign country and leaving all your things behind.  Even for a minimalist, such as myself.

With the rapid approach of July and our pending departure, I have begun to evulate my things differently than before.  They are the things I have chosen to surround myself with over the last several years, things that speak volumes about who I am and what I like.  The idea of being without them is oddly unsettling.

These things fall into one of three categories: what to take, what to store, and what to discard.

Thus far, the first category mostly contains clothing, shoes, portable electronics, art supplies, and perhaps a blanket or two, if they'll fit.  I bought four heavy-duty climb-Mount-Everest type duffel bags, so it should all fit.  And I won't be able to carry my bag a single step of the way.

The things I'll discard include my bed, the couches, the television cabinet, the crib, the dresser - all the big things I don't want to deal with when I return and we are, once again, racing the clock to find a new home (did I mention that as of yet we don't know where we'll be living once we get to Denmark?)

Last but not least: the things that are doomed to storage.  The brass bed, the theater chairs, the bird cage.  The wooden crate I stole from a supermarket and now use as my bedside stand. The glass bottles I found on my various road trips through the southeast.  The wire dalmation that sits on my toaster.  It may be ugly, but it's my ugly dalmation.  My papers: old letters, sketches, and photographs.  The things I've made. 

And my books ...

photo source

I hate the idea of leaving my books behind, including those I refuse to read again.  They aren't just books, they are hours of my life; old friends and foes that have literally shaped who I have become (how's that for melodrama?).  They contain thousands of words I have underlined and quoted, words that have taught me how to read aloud (an art in itself), how to write, and even more - how to think.  The idea of boxing them up makes me feel .... forlorn?  Is that the word?

You know that feeling you get when you're at a book store, and you find something familiar?  It's sort of like unexpectedly running into an old friend.  Well, I feel that way at least.  It's a feeling no Kindle can ever replace.  Even for the Norton Anthologies, those long, kill-me-now anthologies that still make me cringe inside, just a little, from all the hours spent trying to figure out what the hell the author really meant.

I feel that way for all of them.  And it is unsettling.

And also, in many ways, exciting.  It is a chance to reinvent myself.