Two Boxes

How do you fit everything in two boxes?

More to the point; how do you fit everything that is not necessary to everyday life in two boxes (all my everyday stuff will go into one bag, but that’s a story for another day)? How do you decide what things you want to keep forever and what things, though cherished, are not necessary for your future self?

As I’m trying to make this decision, I’m being unusually ruthless. If something can be replaced at a later point, it can go. If something is just pleasant, but not particularly useful, goodbye. If I haven’t used something in the past six months, I probably never will. This ruthlessness is refreshing. I almost feel a sense of catharsis knowing that I won’t have all this clutter around anymore. Unfortunately, I am a classic over-thinker.

What if I loved something more than I thought and getting rid of it comes back to haunt me in ways more sinister and terrible than I could ever imagine? OK, that’s melodramatic, but I really hope the benefits of leaving all my stuff behind outweigh the remorse.

What about the things that you really don’t need, but were given to you as gifts? There are so many beautiful things I own that someone I love has given to me. I don’t want to offend them by selling or giving away their gifts, but at the same time how many figurines am I going to need? Actually, how many figurines does anyone need?

I’m sure there are plenty more things to consider when ditching a life’s worth of possessions. I’d be fascinated to hear about other people’s experiences with drastic de-cluttering. If you have thoughts or feelings on the matter, leave a comment.

The brilliant thing about all of this is that some of my possessions require no deliberation at all. I am only just beginning to discover what an inordinate amount of crap I own. Not just own, but have carried around with me from one house to another, and another, and another! I have moved house 11 times in my life. As I’m only 25, I thought that made me a bit of an expert at packing. Not so. I have, for example, packed and carried around paperwork from a bank account that I closed 10 years ago. Why the hell did I do that? Then there’s all the stuff that I kept thinking that it would come in handy one day. Well, let me tell you, the big box of scrapbooking gear hasn’t been used in eight years and I now know will never be used by me. If anyone wants scissors that cut all kinds of cool patterns on paper, come on down to the garage sale on Sunday.

So now I have two boxes to fill. What’s inside when I’m done will probably be my truest reflection.

The Dead Weight

OK, before you all run screaming, this is not going to be a depressing diary. I hope. This is just going to be a chronicle of the weird stuff that’s about start happening in my life. Problem is, it all started with a dead dog.

Archie was my dog. Scruffy and naughty, but endlessly lovely, Archie was the reason I looked forward to coming home at the end of the day. When I was on holiday, he was what I missed most of all (sorry Mum). He would sleep on my bed, chew my socks, chew my jeans, chew my leather jacket, chew my doona cover – OK, he’d basically chew anything. Redeeming features: he’d always be happy to see me, he would roll over on command, he was affectionate and playful, and he added immensely to my life.

One day a few months ago, the latch on the garden gate broke. I came home from work in the middle of the day to find Archie had flown the coop. After ten minutes of desperately calling shire rangers to see if he’d been picked up, I got a call from my vet. Archie had run under a car. He didn’t make it.

I was completely distraught. I still can’t think about it without being upset. My brother and my friend took me to the vet to say goodbye, then looked after me for the rest of the day. In the late afternoon we were sitting in a café by the beach eating cake and I realised there was nothing holding me to my life in Perth anymore. Archie was the one solid reason I was in the house I was renting. He was the reason I hadn’t sold up and moved to another country. He was, after months of counselling for depression, the only tie holding me down. I had been thinking about moving somewhere else in the world with Archie in 2016, but I knew (with quarantine at customs) it would be very difficult. Now it was easy. All I needed to do was stop blaming myself for his death and I would be able to go anywhere I wanted.

For that matter, why couldn’t I do all the other things I’d been convincing myself were impractical or I didn’t have time for? There were tonnes of things I’d been wanting to do, but I’d put them in the too hard basket or procrastinated my way out of doing them. I had been hurting myself for years by not doing what I thought I should, and instead letting obligations and insecurities keep me down. I owed it to Archie to stop being a wet rag. I decided that, though I was devastated, I would work to not live wondering what would have happened. If I wanted something, I would go and get it.

This brings me to the present. I have a week and a half left on my house lease and I’ve decided not to renew it. I will stay with friends for a month or two, working towards the next goal (more details to follow in the next few posts). What this means is I have to move house. Problem is, I don’t want to lug all my possessions around after me for the next few years as I’m doing whatever is that comes my way. Really, there aren’t that many things I need. As I get older, I’m feeling increasing weighed down by possessions and the attitude our society has towards them. I don’t want things; I want experiences. Last night, I made an ad and posted in on the internet. Sunday next week I’ll have a garage sale. Everything must go. Anything that doesn’t will go to charity. I’ll keep two boxes of precious things, my sister will look after my sewing machine and Terry Pratchett novels (honestly, how could I part with Sir Terry?) and I’ll have a bag of clothes and things I need for everyday life. That’s it.

I’m shedding the dead weight. I’m so excited.