About Packing

Post 51:

            I’m at a point of departure. Boxing up the stuff, the things, the accumulated accoutrements that have surrounded me for a good long phase of my life. It’s an interesting thing, packing.

            Where did I get this stuff? Do I need it now, did I need it then, the thought has to at least pass through your mind. There’s a story behind every possession, trinket, piece of furniture. I mean, they’re in my house. Not only are they in my house, I’m taking most of it with me for the next phase.

            But what is necessary? What’s needed? How many of these things are me—how many of them are just things?

            Not really sure. Being in the moment is sometimes a hard place to judge the moment, so I probably don’t have the best perspective. All I’ll say is that the boxes and tables and the bullshit don’t add up to anything next to the things you can’t take with you.

            Talking about the people, here. I’ve lived in one place for so long, I felt like I might just be Texas’ version of George Bailey. I’m about to leave, and still, I think there might be a run on the bank that prevents me from heading off and out into the great unknown.

            Pack as much time in with the ones you love while they’re still in your midst. They won’t fit in a box, and they probably won’t be amenable to riding around in a truck while you bounce your way down some lonesome highway. This is pretty maudlin, but I’m afraid sentimentality is the order of the day for me on this one. When you’re shoving crap into the back of a truck, that’s all it is: crap. The true valuables aren’t coming with—so to contradict an earlier post, I have to say, you can’t take it with you.

            Although, in my defense, this is a totally different context. I’m not dying, here. Just moving across the country. Hopefully packing will make me wiser, more aware of what it means to live life and cultivate what matters.

            Well, enough of all that. You can still get an overdose of my neurosis (the name of my autobiography) here most days, and I think airlines still run, so I’ll probably be back for a visit before long. So happy trails—I was talking to myself just then.

            Jack’s hitting the road. You get what I mean. See you after.