Things that represent where I am, where I've been, where I'm going, where I want to go; who I am, who I've been, who I want to be-- and maybe even who I don't. But aren't they just things?
They are. Because if you placed my things into the hands of someone else, they might not hold them with reverence or value. They may not see my things as treasure. The freely given favorite t-shirt, the carefully painted wooden sign, the thoughtfully made birthday gift, the letters declaring that I am brave, the books read to connect with people prayed for, the pictures of a beautiful land that has stolen my heart, the jar of rocks, the bound paper volumes filled with things prayed, things promised, and things feared.
They are things. But in my hands, they become treasure. Carving out a place in my heart, in my memory, in my story. And as I packed up my apartment of just a little over 5 months, not sad to leave, but not fully ready to go-- I found myself musing over my things. What goes with me first? What goes with me always? What would be missed? What simply wouldn't? And what separates the two?
It's always interesting to see the things of my life consolidated into boxes. It always reminds me that even though I have comparatively little to physically take {and sometimes comparatively much}, the storehouses of my heart are full with room to spare. And it reminds me to travel lightly. To give away freely. To remain grateful. Because no matter where they are, they are simply things.
It is the people who gave, the people who love, the people who sharpen and bend, the places embraced and longed for that make the things packed away in boxes worth keeping, moving, and truly treasuring.
