This morning I began packing - the real packing. You know, the books and knick-knacks off the shelves type of packing. The rummaging through the years of accumulated junk kind of packing. The "do I save this shell with my zodiac symbol on it because my best friend bought it for me on her vacation when we were 12?" type of packing.
It's tough because I've never packed before with the thought that this move is going to be permanent. (Fingers crossed.) Difficult decisions need to be made. Do I take this lamp with me because, well, I need a lamp, but it looks so good in my "old bedroom"? Do I really need to take ALL my photo albums from over the years with me RIGHT NOW because chances are I will be moving again before the "buy a house" stage of my life?
Luckily, the move isn't all too far a distance, and some of these questions don't have to be answered today. Not that I want the moving process to be too gradual, but it's comforting to know I can postpone answering some of the unanswerables until post-move.
These dilemmas make me feel so materialistic, though. Deep down, I know I'm really not, and part of me wants to say "Fuhgeddaboudit!" and throw all the junk out. The other part needs to keep them so I can remember my history. My life. I'm putting my life into boxes. This is weird.
Do you remember your first real move? Have you done it yet? What advice do you have?
Photo courtesy Heather