Moving can be heartbreaking in a good way
Getting rid of things in preparation for my July 1 move has been more difficult than I thought it would be.
I don’t need all the stuff I have. But I’m finding it hard to part with things, even though I know that when I get everything pared down I’ll feel a sense of relief.
When I got divorced nine years ago and moved out of my house and into this apartment, leaving things behind was easy. Almost everything I owned, right down to my pasta strainer, reminded me of my failed marriage.
The things I’ve accumulated in the intervening years remind me of all that I’ve accomplished since I’ve been on my own and everything my son and I have been through together.
It seems the happier your life gets, the harder it is to de-clutter. Worst of all, treasured objects start to take on a dual role. They let you relive your happy memories, but they also make you feel nostalgic for a past you can never recapture.
Feeling more than one emotion at a time is normal, and being able to identify conflicting feelings is a hallmark of emotional maturity. But the combination of acute happiness and deep sadness is said to be one of the most painful psychological states a human being can experience. You’d think that feeling these contradictory emotions, even on a small scale, would make it easier to get rid of things, but for some reason, it seems to make it harder.
Karl Marx wrote about commodity fetishism, and an array of scholars have offered up ideas on why it is that mere objects become so heavily laden with value and meaning.
But none of these theories really explain why it’s so hard to send my son’s old Harry Potter costume to the Sally Ann, or why my grandmother’s teacups stare down at me from their dusty perch on the highest shelf in my kitchen cupboard and dare me to try to get rid of them.
The children’s book The Velveteen Rabbit seems to do the best job of explaining why it is that some objects take on almost human qualities. In the story, a stuffed rabbit turns into a real one, but only at the moment when it has outlived its use, and its once-glossy fur has become tattered and worn. “Real isn’t how you are made. It’s a thing that happens to you,” says the Skin Horse to the rabbit. It’s not the social status a thing conveys or the happy memories it holds that imbues it with meaning and makes it feel like it has a life of its own. Love does this to things.
When my son and I moved into our apartment, he was five years old. In the beginning, I tried to make our new life and our new place seem fun. I’d let popcorn overflow when I made it on the stove, and when I cooked spaghetti I’d make a show of throwing it around the kitchen to demonstrate its readiness. There are two pieces of spaghetti that have been stuck to my ceiling for nine years now.
Recently, my son told me he won’t be able live in a place that doesn’t have spaghetti on the ceiling. I was really looking forward to having clean ceilings again. But I’m happy my son managed to hold onto our brighter moments, rather than the darker ones my pasta-tossing days could have easily recalled. Kids have a special gift for this.
The hardest things to leave behind are the things you can’t take with you. We’re moving to a nicer place that’s more suitable for us. But I’m thankful we’re both sad about leaving our smaller, shabbier home. It’s only tough to say goodbye when life turns out better than you once expected it to.