Trying to Let Go
After I got to Leila's home in northern Maryland Monday (yeah, I'm a couple days behind--I'll try to catch up), I was forced to confront the most difficult physical manifestation of this cross-country move I'm doing. That's right: The sheer amount of stuff. I've never been one of those people who could pack light or get rid of things. I'm not a hoarder--I'll get rid of newspapers, (most) old magazines, clothes that don't fit. There are no jars in my apartment of my nail clippings or errant hairs. But when it comes to things like books, pictures, even kitschy old gifts, I just can't bring myself to divest myself. I keep thinking things like, So-and-so gave me that, it means something to me since so-and-so is now living thirty gazillion miles away. I also blame my mother in part for this, too. She used to get fed up with the state of my room (she called it "messy," I called it "organized chaos"--you know, the kind where noth...