Pack Rat

Hello. My name is Martha. And I am a Pack Rat.

I admit it. I am the one who cuts out interesting things from the newspaper and finds them months later, wondering why I had ever found them interesting. Even when I can't entirely remember, I hesitate to throw them out. There's a tiny voice in my head that grows ever louder as I reach for the recycling bin, reminding me there could be a day when having this piece of newsprint might be useful in my life. There are a few occasions when I have been able to silence that voice and throw out what I have hoarded, but not very often. I'm reminded of this more and more when I go back to my home in Aurora and various memories threaten to crawl out of many of my drawers in the form of concert programs, show tickets, movie stubs, newspaper articles, letters and whatever else I have managed to collect and not part with yet. It's nice to have the memories there. It can also be a little bit stifling after awhile however.

The other major things in my life that I seem to be unable to part with are my books. This may not seem like a major problem to most people, but my parents are at the point of condemning my room at home as a fire trap. There are few surfaces books have not laid claim to, and the few that are left are simply waiting to have literature resting on them. I love my books. I love the memories that I have tied up in them. The smell of the cottage that falls from so many of the pages, the dedications for birthdays, the notes I've tucked into the pages. I know in most of my mind that they are only things, objects that have no bearing on who I am, and yet at the same time they are an integral part of who I am and how I have come to be that way. They show how I have grown and some of the choices that I have made. So while I continue to hoard my precious pages with memories embossed on every page, they will never really make me feel like a rat.

It's hard to be a pack rat when you really want to be able to move. And actually moving is ever harder. Packing too much of the stuff you have collected is painful, and there is never a place to put when you do rest your feet for awhile again. I seem to be finding that as I move parts of my life around on a regular basis. I'm getting better on a few levels. At least I think I am. In London, I'm more brutal when it comes to saving things. What I don't need now, or in the next few weeks, I tend to throw it out. There are few surfaces without books or music in my room, but the floor remains clear of my literature . . . my bed doesn't though.

I'm sure I will continue to be a pack rat for much of my life. It's only been in the past few years that I've begun to see the value in being able to pack and move quickly. The memories that I create aren't tucked up in the drawers of my room, but live all around me. I also don't feel the need to live in a world of memories. Whenever I try to around here, I find I miss a large part of the exciting life that exists here. I'm beginning to connect my memories not to things, but some part of myself that only I know how to find. And it is beginning to cut down on the clutter. Maybe in a few years I will be able to say "Hello. My name is Martha. And I am a recovered Pack Rat."