My Souvenirs

If you’ve been following me on Instagram, you’ve probably seen my story updates about these shelves I’ve been organising. I’m desperately trying to get my living room presentable before my out-of-state friend visits and stays with me, but ultimately before Rosh Hashanah, the new year. 

This “project” actually predates further back to whenever I bought a filing cabinet and got rid of my desk. A daring move, but one I thought necessary.

I have a friend who is a minimalist. She inspires me to downsize constantly; not by force but by example, as I’ve been trying to do so for years. Yes, years. When you’ve had to move as much as I’ve had, you get really annoyed at yourself really fast when you have to keep moving piles and piles of boxes and boxes.

I’m sick of boxes.

Yesterday, I acquired more materials to add to my new shelves, and after sorting everything, including dividing what should be kept from what should be thrown out, I turned around to find two full boxes waiting to be unpacked.

I sighed, and resigned to unpacking them another day, knowing I wouldn’t be able to sufficiently file everything away in the cabinet. It was late, and I needed to exercise restraint and actually sleep like a normal human.

Then as I drove into work this morning, thinking as I do, I realised how much Life is like constant, incessant unpacking, organising, sorting, storing, etc.

People are always telling you to get your life in order, to have everything sorted, figured out, organised, etc.

B. S.

Life is messy. You’re never going to have your life in perfect order. What is perfect order anyway? Such a concept is too arbitrary.

I think we should always desire an organised life, but though we might never achieve whatever perfection looks like, we should not be deterred from organising through the messiness, the journey.

Sometimes we still have two more boxes we need to sort. Maybe they’re junk, maybe they’re not. Hopefully they’re not forgotten or ignored or worse, purposefully hidden away like a skeleton instead. Hopefully you’re aware of their presence.

And maybe, when you’re ready, when it’s time, when you open them up and begin sorting through their contents, you realise they’re not junk. They’re memories. They’re a part of you. They’re not meant to be thrown out or neglected. They’re meant to be shared.

That’s why I’m satisfied with not being a minimalist like my dear friend. That’s not who I am. Sure, you could call me another pack rat, collector, curator, or a sentimentalist. Whatever. I think I’m just learning to be relaxed in the messiness and ambiguity of Life.

And even if I don’t have everything perfect by Rosh Hashanah, at least I’m trying, at least I’m doing something. (At least it’s not Pesach!)

We all have extra boxes in our lives, but are they junk to throw out or memories, treasures, souvenirs to share?

 

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