The things we carry- Part 2: stories

I love listening to stories. As far as I can remember, I have always either sat down to listen to stories from my father or on the radio; or made up my own. 

About a year ago, I realized that even though I loved listening to people's stories, I had trouble telling mine. I do tell my story, but I realized recently that what I essentially do is give a stock answer/story when people ask me to tell me about myself. I usually end my story at a specific point in my life, (roughly about five years ago), when everything changed, seemingly for the better. Most people seem content to stop at that point, and I often change the subject to get them to talk about themselves again.

Last year on a trip back from Indiana while trapped in a car with new friends, I could tell something was up. They asked me to share my story with them, and I started with my stock answer, with a few more details, since we had quite a few hours to kill. After I was done, someone turned to me and said: 

-"And then what happened?". 

I must have looked puzzled, because he looked at me again and repeated his question... 

I was in shock... I did not know what to say to him. After a long pause, I looked at him and said: 

-"Hmmm.... I don't know. Life happened, I guess. I don't know..." . 

How does one forget their own story? Does the daily grind take over? Does the need to meet basic materials things become more important than our need to make an impact in our world? Do the questions we ask in our young years become so irrelevant that we stop seeking answers? 

I just stumbled on an old daily planner while spring cleaning. It was not a "dear diary" kind of journal, but I just noted one or two good/bad things that had happened that day. I may need to start doing this again. 

A single line of history a day is better than fading away without a trace...

A day in the life

eed

The things we carry. Part 1: things

I moved to a new neighborhood a few months ago, and I was shocked at the number of things I have accumulated over the years. I never realized for example that I owned so many purses. When did that happen? Growing up, I promised myself, I would never turn into my mother who owns an ever increasing collection of purses... Today, there is container full of purses, I may wear one day, in my basement.

Basements, by the way, are a terrible thing! I never had one, and now I wonder how full it will get by the time I move on to my next destination. Everything seemed to fit all crammed together in my own bedroom apartment (sans basement), and with double the space (plus basement), I wonder how every even managed to fit. Moving on....

I sometimes wonder why I need to own so many pens. I mean, I am never going to use them all...but you know what, almost every single one of them has a special place in my heart. Some were given to me, some were purchased in special places, some were stolen borrowed from special places (Do not judge me! It is better than stealing towels!), some I have owned for years, and they simply remind me of a special time in my life.

I like to call myself a self aware/practical hoarder. I tend to keep things with sentimental value for a long time, until one day, the need for uncluttered space takes over. (The second bucket of pens did not survive the move...).  My life is this constant battle between the need to see clearly ahead and the need to hold on to my past, which I know is not uncommon. Although, I have often wondered where the sweet spot would be. Is it the place where we instinctively know to make room for bigger and better things? Is it the place where older things do not matter as much anymore, and their mere presence does not mean that I have failed in some way?

Wouldn't I like to know...

eed

PS: The purses will find their way to Goodwill by the weekend...promise!

PPS: Actually, basements are great! It doubles as my personal home gym, so I shouldn't be so hard on mine.