Since leaving my parents’ humble abode after college, I have lived in 10 different places. I have slept in 10 different rooms, I have looked out 10 different windows, I have brushed my teeth and spit toothpaste at 10 different mirrors. In July, I will make New Zealand lucky number 11.
To most people that sounds daunting. I use to be one of those people, and I still am in a way, but I also see the glory in moving — the freedom, the power, the forced clarity. As humans we feel compelled to hang onto things. My dear friend Andrea said it best, “It’s like I have this notion that if I throw it away, all the memories from that shirt will fade into the dumpster. But does every memory need to be tied to a physical object? And at what point do these objects start to take precedent over memories and relationships?”
My love for moving is rooted in the reflection. The “what the hell am I hanging onto this for?” and the rush of emotions that can overcome you when you breathe deeply into an old t-shirt. Moving is just the right amount of pain in the rear to make you really ponder whether you want to lug your things to another location. I don’t always know which items hold just the right amount of sentimental value, but each time I pack up I get a little better at it.