packing a life into boxes

 

I’ve done it so many times I don’t have a count anymore, but every time I pack my life into boxes, I’m flooded. Both with the amount of stuff I own, and, as I touch every item in my home, the emotional terrain each item comes with.

I’m not a pack-rat or a minimalist. I live for the feeling of clear cupboards and manageable drawers, but I’m hesitant to toss stuff that I’ve spent my money on, because will I kick myself in a month when I need to purchase a new fillintheblank? A cousin once told me that if he’s considering discarding something he can replace for under $15, he lets it goo. But I also grew up watching my mom be meticulous about our possessions — sometimes to the point she was discarding items we very much need in our daily life.

I don’t have answers. Our relationship with our stuff is so complicated. It’s fraught with our own layers of emotional complexity, but also with socio-economics and the politics of wealth inequality.

Our objects tie us to the multitudes of who we’ve been. I have a bookmark with a giraffe a mother cross-stitched for me when I was nine after I lent her daughter a piece of clothing at a summer camp, because I like being reminded of the first time I remember consciously choose to set aside my own anxieties for someone else’s inclusion. Last summer, I filled trashed bags of clothing, because I didn’t want my closet to remain a reminder of of all the ways I compromised my worth. My boyfriend and I are moving two full sets of Harry Potter books across the country (plus the beginnings of a third, illustrated set), because this story shaped our childhoods and adolescences in separate, but powerful ways. Do we need three copies of the Sorcerer’s Stone in one house (especially when you consider I’ve read it so many times I can repeat the first page from memory)?

At the beginning of the year, I had a vision of white space. I wanted to clear room. Why, I wasn’t sure, and for what, I didn’t know. If I’m learning to have faith in anything, it’s that we are receiving preparation for what comes next. I was creating space between the narratives that frame my life, and the desires those narratives found conflict with. I needed clarity to make the decision we made three months ago.

We’re weeks away from the materialization of that “white space” I wanted. A cross-country move, and a place to live where we know no one except the HR departments who hired us. I said to a friend that this move feels less like an outright opportunity, and more like the opportunity for opportunities.

Six months ago, I cleared my home of anything that was unnecessary or reminded me of pain. Now that I’m packing what’s left, the question has shifted “do you need this enough to haul it cross-country,” and the answers aren’t as clear. There’s math I need to consider, how much does the trailer hold, what can we afford to replace, what must we just part with, but then the equations get messy. How do you fit what you need in a trailer, but first, how do you know what you need when you leave home for the first time? How much of you collection do you keep out of comfort? And how warm is that comfort, really? How do you carry all your history with you, and still keep space for new places to become a kind of home?

The question I’m really asking is how to I love the home I’m leaving and still leave room for something new to grow?

thoughts on the business of creativity

Torrie June 2018 605 (2).JPGDo you ever become obsessed with productivity? The need to keep vaulting forward? Believe me when I tell you that, as I write this an hour after waking, and already I’ve felt myself pitching into the anxiety of industry.

I tried to explain this to my partner: I feel like I’m fragmenting. My brain is this hive, a colony of operations, except I’m the only bee inside and can’t visit every chamber. There’s the business of leaving: the leases and the jobs and the moving boxes and what you do with all the stuff you own when half of it you love and half of it you hate, but it all seems to necessary. But then there’s all the stuff that has nothing to do with moving, and everything to do with just living.

How do you make enough money to earn the freedom of unencumbered hours to create? If, by some miracle of economy and privilege, you have that freedom, how do you cut away the noise of the world to let ideas populate your wilderness? If by all the miracles of economy and privilege and focus, you actually create something, how do you get anyone else’s attention?

I sound like I’m complaining that “no one” reads me writing, but really, I’m not. More people read my writing than I can even imagine. After I wrote about finishing my novel, several people emailed asking for the PDF. What a gift that was. Doubly, triply so when those miraculous readers wrote me to say they saw the kind of beauty in my story I’ve worked so hard to create.

No, it’s all the business of creativity. The social media presence and the digital analytics and the “cultivating community” (versus the actual, valuable process of finding people who are as excited about the same things as you). We’re inundated constantly with all these stories about people who “hustled” their way into their careers, who built brands and followings and presences and parlayed them into other opportunities. I want to write, and I’m not saying I should be be able to do this without any work (because I’m shouldn’t), but I’m saying what does my Instagram following having to do with the stories I write about broken people? And if one means something to the other, how do I marry those bright squares with the emotional excavations of my fiction.

I’m creatively restless in the blank spaces that finishing my novel opened, and I’m uncomfortable and confused by the landscape of digital creativity. (What even does that mean? Again, I write. Does that make me a digital creative? Does simply being creative in 2018 mean you are, automatically, a digital creative?)

Yesterday, I sat in a garden for two hours, and finally left, because I couldn’t still my mind. These two trajectories, moving away and building my writing, are linked, because I’m looking at this move as an opportunity to refocus my time and energy. My brain is a to do list a mile long, and it’s an internet browser left open on too many tabs. 

I’ve questions I want answered and stories I want told. How do I drill down past all the extra stuff to think as deeply as you need to write? And then how do I pop back above the surface, and make space for myself in the already crowded room?

did you hear the news?

We’re moving! This August, to the East Coast. Get ready, people. Get excited.

After we made the decision to move, I kept asking my boyfriend “are we really doing this?” Even though we were doing all the things you do when you leave (told our parents, told our bosses, signed contracts, applied for housing, etc.), it didn’t feel real. How could it? We said we’d do this one big thing, and now we’re just doing it?

This will be the first time that either of us move away (away, away, not just to the next zip code) from our homes. I know people move away all the time, but for us, this is the ball game.

We spent last week in the area to which we’ll be moving. Even though we were there for work and at least thirty miles north of the community we’ll be moving to, just being in the same region felt surreal. We descended, and I kept saying “this will be the airport we’ll fly in and out of when we live here.” We walked outside: “This is what the trees will smell like when live here.” We grew sticky in the heat: “This is what the air will feel like when we live here.” Minnesota is my home is such profound and deeply rooted ways that I can barely, barely imagine what it’ll be like to live anywhere else. I looked up at the blue sky, and again: “This is what the sky will look like when I live here.”

Already, I’m enamored with magnolia leaves. They’re thick and glossy, and stand at attention in ways I didn’t expect from tree leaves. Already, I’m intrigued by the history, so much military, so much politics. Our federal/political past has always interested me less than our socio-cultural past. Already, I’m mapping transit stations, because so much is going to be a train ride away. The whole east coast, it seems, will be just a train ride away.

Seeing our soon-to-be state, doing the cross-country move housekeeping, playing tourist in our new backyard. It made it seem – not more real, because it’ll take months to shake the not-in-Minnesota surrealism – but more tangible. This is really going to happen. This is what I was feeling this January, when I said I wanted room. Space, space, more blank space. For what, I didn’t know them.

For this, I guess. For all this.