Moving from one state to another (and back again), or even from the third floor of an apartment building to the first, forces you to consider the meaning of all of your personal belongings...from the "can't-live-without-its" to the the "it-was-good-while-it-lasted's."
Take for example, a three-foot, not-to-scale, metal, antique washed replica of la Tour Eiffel that was once used for the centerpiece of a fabulously planned (eh-hem) French themed bridal shower, that has since been sitting in my closet for five years. Surely I could use this piece de resistance again. How could I, in good consciousness, rid myself of such a gem? A gem that although it has been a sticking point of my marriage, had at one memorable point in time served as a great conversation piece.
Z: Upon inspection of said object, "What exactly are we going to do with this Eiffel Tower?" This thing doesn't belong in the living room. We should get rid of it...and this, and this," also pointing to various objects in the apartment.
A: "I'll use it again. Er, I like it. It's mine. Uh, I'm not getting rid of it," quickly recognizing the trend of the familiar conversation. Hides it in another, less frequently visited closet behind dozens of Christmas ornaments neatly* tucked away in plastic bins. Running out of closets and under the bed spaces in which to hide it after Z finds it for the third time in three months.
And then moving to a foreign country forces you to consider the absurdity of it all -- well maybe not all of it, but at least some of the it. So, while I am now willing, in my own time, and at my own prompting, to give away my Eiffel Tower (a grand symbolic gesture, might I add), today I begin to neatly* and patiently tuck away my, correction, our, personal belongings into plastic bin after plastic bin in preparation for their year hiatus. When we return, I probably will have forgotten about a few objects here and there; a pair of pants that no longer fit, a shirt that just doesn't quite make the cut, great aunt Claire's chipped vase that seemed oh so retro-chic prominently atop the shelf before it was hidden by that new frame from Pottery Barn (or was that last season's favorite?). I learn to rid myself of some clutter, to part with bits and pieces of bits and pieces, and I pack up the rest for its short slumber.
Just so it's clear, we do not plan to bring with us the objects, the dozens of books, the spices, the everyday trimmings that fill our shelves, closets and cupboards. We do plan to bring with us a few suitcases of clothes (of course, not to exceed 50 pounds each), our favorite deodorants and shoes, and our intangible and keen sense of what makes a home our home. It will be fun to determine exactly what that means, not only because we will be living together for the first time in our new space, but we will be living together for the first time in a foreign space. Double whammy!
To start anew is refreshing and terrifying to me. It's also not forever, so let's not get too dramatic. But part of the adventure will be in collecting new objects over which to muse, to debate their existence in our shared space together, to haggle over the "can't-live-without-its" and the "it-was-good-while-it-lasted's." Certainly, with my perseverance, I will learn how to transport a not-to-scale replica of the Great Wall by the time we leave Beijing.
*The term neatly is used relatively
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