On Packing

I have, over the last few entries here, alluded to the fact that I am currently in the process of packing up my university dorm room before leaving the country tomorrow evening. The totally predictable problem I’ve encountered is that I’ve spent the weeks and days leading up to my departure doing the bare minimum to constitute the term ‘packing’. I tossed some stationery in a box? Look at me go! I dropped an empty suitcase on the floor and opened it? What a hero. You get the idea, and this carries on, in a small way, the message from yesterday’s blog. That is, small victories can seem pretty great on the inside, but add a drop of context and the whole charade is revealed, leaving you to feel even worse than before. Unlike the concept of broken promises to oneself, though, there is, in this case, a final goal that needs to be achieved, one that is being ignored. Even on this last day, I procrastinated. I’ve watched hours of television I didn’t need to, sorted out a problem with my stupid Amazon account that could have waited, and went to see an old friend from boarding school. That last one was actually really nice, and a rare moment of spontaneity that I enjoyed in recent memory. An exception to the rule, though.

Added to the already huge task of packing are the dozens of tiny little choices it necessitates making. I am genetically predisposed to hoarding, and while I can operate under slightly more self-control than others I know, choosing to do so is a slog I try to avoid at all cost. What that usually translates to is me keeping stuff I’ve had for years out of a misplaced sense of nostalgia, only because some four years before I couldn’t come up with a good enough reason to throw a particular object away. What I have been trying to do then, is not only trying to sort through what’s worth actually keeping in that pile, but also simultaneously doing my best not to inadvertently be causing the same problem for my future self. I can’t tell you how many random post-it notes older than two presidencies I’ve clung on to – but this time around, they are going up against the most ruthless packer I’ve been yet. Which is, to be fair, not that ruthless by any other standard.

I am so used to packing, and so over it. I have started to treasure especially the times when I spend at least a month in one place at a time. No moving – no packing. Of course, this was never an issue when I lived in Morocco or India growing up, but from boarding school onwards, I’ve never felt like I had a proper ‘home’. This isn’t me throwing myself a pity party, like boo-hoo, I’ve got nowhere to go, because I have somewhere to go. I’m very fortunate and grateful for that fact. What I’m trying to point out is that I don’t have a place that is my own, a place that is permanent. That is something I’ve craved for a while now and one of my main and only grand objectives for my life, at this stage at least. Knowing I can spend an indefinite amount of time in a place I enjoy being in sounds pretty good right now. Anything does, over the prospect of packing.