The memories of a hoarder

I'm beginning to wonder if I'm a hoarder.  Not enough of one to have a reality TV show, but enough of one that you might look at my house, pause briefly, and raise your eyebrows.  I say this because today, as boxes were assembled to the rip-ripping of packing tape and belongings were carefully packed into them, I started to cry.  It wasn't because we're moving to a new place and won't have many friends, or fear that my body will reject South Dakota in a fury of mucus and itchy eyes, or even because at 31 years of age, I'm moving in with my mother-in-law.  I cried because I love my stuff and won't see it for awhile.  And that is why I think I'm a hoarder.

My stuff isn't just a collection of material things; it is a collection of memories attached to physical objects.  My memories are precious to me; to be surrounded by goodness is what makes me feel at home.  The blue and white tiled side table next to our couch was a Craigslist find when Matt first bought his house and needed some furniture.  It held leaky pens for bill paying, my thyme plant from which many meals are seasoned, and the stud finder for house projects.  I like to try and give Matt an ego boost when I sweep it in front of his body, make it go beeeep and say, "Ooooh!  Found a stud!"

Two canvas paintings are carefully packed away; they are reminders of a Halloween party we hosted where guests painted and sculpted in the garage.  It was also the Halloween that Matt dressed as a Flag Girl (to accompany his Band Nerd wife).  That is something I definitely don't want to forget.  But will I forget that he is brave and willing to try anything, especially if it makes me laugh?

Little green shelves were packed too.  They were handed down from Kara, who always inspires me to keep sewing.  Will I be inspired when it's not on the wall next to the sewing machine?  While in college, Anna was studying in Tanzania and picked up a beautiful wooden figuring of a mother and child dancing.  She knew I wanted kids someday and wanted me to dream about them.  Will I forget her thoughtfulness because her gift is now wrapped in the comic section of the Sunday paper stuffed in a box?  And then there is that cozy blanket given to me by someone I hurt in the past.  Will I forget what it feels like to be mean?  Will I forget what humility and forgiveness looks like?  What about pictures of friends we're leaving?  Will I forget them if their faces are not looking back at me each day?

If I'm without all those memories, who am I?  Who am I to become?  That is probably what scares me the most; not knowing what life is going to be like after all the material stuff is gone (in storage).  Will I be able to stand on my own two feet on someone else's kitchen floor?  (because mine was put in lovingly by Matt and although it's cold, it's beautiful.)  When I can feel secure about the unknown future and am content to be without my stuff, that is when I will call myself a healed hoarder.

For now, I'll throw the fear about moving into the recycling bin (it will come back in a different form soon enough I'm sure).  I'll wait until the last minute to wrap my favorite coffee cup (it has a picture of my nephew Zachary on the side), and when the tears start to fall, I'll pack them carefully into a box with the rest of my beloved stuff.