Digging Through What Matters

Moving is hard. Especially when you have way too much matter.

I typed the word matter initially as a noun (it sounds nicer than stuff), but the verb equally applies. 

As my family has been trying to pack and move out of our home for over a year now, I have legitimate reasons I can point to for delays: weeks-long work trips for my daughter, the actress; the adults’ work responsibilities; and homeschooling. 

But the main reason? Too much matter matters.

I have memories of growing up in a house full of stuff and not being able to see the floor in my room. And plenty of days in my adult life homes, there was no visible kitchen table top or a room where the floor surface continually shrank. 

But after experiencing a bicoastal life the past few years, where my daughter, Ella Grace Helton, and I would up and fly across the country, sometimes with a day’s notice, we became used to and quite comfortable living with only what we could fit in suitcases.

Minimalism has its perks: No nagging stress of having to “clean” before guests arrive. Peace of mind knowing you can pack and leave in a matter of hours. Overall feeling lighter and less burdened.

After delivering multiple cars-full of stuff to donation and storing many bins packed with things we want to keep, there’s still more. It seems each item has an assigned value — an incalculable measurement as a souvenir of some life moment or phase.

Weighing the matter takes time and triggers emotions.

Thank you to those who talked me out of garage sales. So much effort, prep and stress for maybe a few hundred dollars. I’m happy to avoid the depressing interactions of people trying to bargain me down to nothing for items I once (and maybe still) loved.

A huge weight — literally — are all the photos. My first thought was, oh I wish digital photography had shown up a few generations earlier. Then I wouldn’t have so many heavy bins full of albums, photos and negatives — mine and my parents’ passed to me. 

But there’s peace of mind touching and seeing old photographs. They instantly spark the brain, and memories flow. You feel the past, you might smell it, or even hear it.

I was proud of myself for separating from many things. But my mother’s report on her early life, her history paper from 1965, and even my elementary school autobiography are things my daughter will enjoy holding and seeing in the future. Especially given she never met her grandmother.

It’s all part of the history book that never has an end and just keeps getting heavier. Some things matter.

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