The twilight of Tarlabasi, seen from our terrace.
With the impending move, this much has become clear. Organizing your things will always correspond with organizing your life. On my floor now, I am looking at two pieces of luggage to bring home, a black rolling suitcase and a gray backpack. That means all my possessions fall into two categories. The first category is reserved for items that are both important – or, I suppose, useful – as well as meeting the space restrictions. The second, things that are either not important enough to warrant space, or things that are too heavy or large to fit into the bags. Frantically and sometimes hastily making these decisions was once unnerving for me as a young traveler. Now, it’s a carnival of clarity.
This process is as black and white as it gets. There is very little room for debate. It’s either worth the trouble, or its wasting space. Computer and camera must come, if only so I can continue give you something to read. Guitar must come. Clothes, for the most part, have been donated to the neighborhood. As this process goes on, things get put in their place. Literally. Important things get the room, little things get consolidated or tossed away. Space equals importance, it’s the first law of travel dynamics.
As you pack your bag and give each item its due attention and room, it’s inevitable that your mind clears along with your apartment. As you assemble your suitcase, you are making a physical representation of what you are, the essential you. You are dividing the suitcase, and your life, subconsciously. Your suitcase will tell your story.
As I again narrow my life to a few bags carefully kept under the 23 kg airline limit, some things about myself become clearer. I am, it seems, sentimental. Space that could have gone to keeping that useful and stylish winter jacket, has gone to things with a story. Gifts from students whom I will never forget have found room. Shirts reserved for events I would never want to go to have lost out. I am a bibliophile, I must keep books, they are the giver of knowledge. Yet, jackets and scarves, the giver of warmth, can be left behind. Replaceable upon necessity. I am a writer and a reporter at heart. I need every piece of paper and napkin I’ve ever written a note, phone number, name, or rough draft on. Every thought, sketch and half-brained idea for a column, story, or book I’ve ever had should come, lest I lose out on discovering gold amongst them later. But, one pair of jeans and two pairs of socks will undoubtedly get me through.
And there it sits. My life, in two suitcases. Staring back at me, showing me what is important, and what is superfluous. What I value, and what I can toss. A pie chart of my priorities, divided up and revealed to me.
