Boxes

It has been awhile since I posted. One could assume that my life has been going fairly smoothly and I have not learned any major life lessons. It seems I only really post here when I have recently had some sort of epiphany. I don’t think I’ve had a major one lately. This might mean that I have somehow overcome a portion of my insanity. I do feel more in control than I have in awhile. Yet I have noticed that the strangest things send me into the beginnings of anxiety. Perhaps this just means that I’m not learning anything and I am in fact at a standstill in terms of personal revelations. Is that good or bad?

I am having this uncontrollable urge to try and keep my house very organized. Of course, I have accepted that I am simply not a neat or minimalist type of person. I can try to keep things organized and neat but I fail miserably every time. I attribute my failure to simply possessing too much stuff. I come by that honestly. My paternal grandmother was a hoarder. I can remember weaving my way through towers of boxed up crap. Anytime we left my grandmother’s house she would give us a bag of candy. Usually it had been around so long that we had never heard of the type of candy it was. As soon as we were out of visible range, my mother would take the candy from us. I figure that saved our lives on several occasions. Anyway, I keep stuff. I don’t keep food. But I keep a lot of things in case I need them. As a teacher, I have many things I ‘might’ need like weird odds and ends or old lessons from when I first started my career. In all honesty, I probably wouldn’t use a lot of that material now. Furthermore, I’ve discovered that my skills are honed enough that I don’t need the binders upon binders of materials. I guess after ten years of working in education I’ve got it figured out. So the twenty or so boxes of school stuff I might need in the basement...I might not ever need. But I’m keeping them anyway. Besides they are a marker of change, or an ever-present reminder of my accomplishments. They are artifacts.

I suppose all of the superfluous things I keep do tell a story of sorts. My school materials trace my development and travels in education. I started as an English teacher when I really wanted to be a history teacher. Then I took a wild side trip through music, communications technology, film and finally student success. I’ve discovered some talents I didn’t know I had. Also, I discovered that there are alternative jobs out there that I would also enjoy if I were to ever win the lottery. Film school would be an incredible experience. Other random things I have kept define my love of popular culture of days past. I have a massive Star Wars collection. I have a few valuable pieces but overall most of it is really the stuff you see at flea market tables. Oh incidentally, that person standing there buying the death star pen is me. Add that one to the boxes. I have Rubbermaid containers that house my dolls and stuffed animals from my past. I sometimes think that I keep them for my children. However, I am almost 34 and unmarried (although one could call me common-law). I don’t really see children in my future anymore. So why am I keeping this story of my past?
I find it distressing to think that all this ‘stuff’ defines me. It would mean I really am a product of a materialistic society and I myself would be *gasp* materialistic. I don’t want to be that. But perhaps that is another aspect of who I am that I need to accept.

Most recently an old friend of mine was able to get a job here at the same school I work at. I’m excited to have him here. In this rural isolated area it is nice to have people around who you can hang out with. It is especially cool because this is someone I’ve known for a long time. We are the type of friends that can be out of contact for a long time, but when we do get to talk or hang out, not a lot has changed. We lived together in college and I would say he was one of the first people to define my new “family”. In the last 10 years of my life or so I have met a variety of people who I would define as closer than friends. These are the people who would offer to drive an hour and a half to pick up Henning and then drive him another two and a half hours so that he could be with me during a crisis. These are the people who have offered to help us look after our future children if we have the flu. These are the people who helped me procure a loan so that I didn’t lose my car. They have fed Henning when he was out of work, taught me skills I was lacking and have made us feel secure when we are far away from a safety net. This particular friend has held my hair back when I have had far too much to drink, taken me to the hospital, looked after me when I’ve been ill, and made me laugh when I desperately needed to. I can remember the two of us living on hotdogs, rice and Swiss- chalet sauce.

So of course, because this friend of mine will be living with us for the next few months I am reorganizing and reflecting on old times. This is what has led to the reflection on all the stuff I have boxed up in the basement. I am asking myself, do I really need to keep all of this? But then I think to myself, it isn’t just me who might need it.

I don’t think I have a great revelation to wrap up this entry. I’m sure that I could draw connections between the important things I keep in the basement and the important friends who I may not see all that often, but who I need. I hope that some people have me boxed up in their basement and that when they need to; they open the box and invite me back into life, even if it is just for a little while. I hope that I am a difficult item to give away, or throw out. I hope that I am defined more by whose basements I inhabit then by what material items I keep in mine. I’m not ready to clean out my basement. In fact, I hope to fill it with boxes.