Things aren't just things

I like stuff.

I like having stuff.

I like looking at stuff.

I like looking at my stuff.

As materialistic as those statements are, they're true. The thing is, I just didn't realize how much I enjoyed having my stuff around until I'd been deprived of it for a long time.

Between bouncing around apartments during my college years and moving 4,319,834,987,349 miles away from everything I knew, I haven't seen my stuff in years. Due to the absence of my things and my continued existence (something I was sure would be affected by boxing away my belongings), I concluded that I could easily live without my stuff and pondered why I even bothered having so much stuff in the first place. Conversations were had about the freedom of not having stuff on display. How clean, uncluttered and carefree living seemed without having all the things you thought you needed within arm's reach.

I convinced myself it was good to not have an identity.

Then my bookcase showed up.

The bubbling anticipation of unpacking boxes of books and knickknacks was overwhelming. I contemplated taking vacation just so I could finish painting and installing the thing, but that seemed excessive. Instead, I bided my time and worked on my identity holder when I could. 

 

It was finally time to crack the tape of our moving boxes and discover what goodies lay inside. All the things I forgot I missed stared up at me. All my books, design magazines, trinkets, pictures, bangles, and shiny bobbles gleamed up at me waiting to be rediscovered. Memories came flooding back as I recalled where and how each item was acquired, where its last location of display was, how that one item really helped polish off the ambiance of the room. 

 

As I pulled myself out of my thoughts I realized how wrong I was to leave all my things packed in blank cardboard boxes. As each items was carefully brushed off and placed in its new home I realized it wasn't just my things I was packing away out of sight for so long, it was me.