We’re moving from a house to an apartment—which means sorting and packing, packing and sorting, tossing stuff, keeping stuff… ad infinitum.

It’s not just stuff we’re packing or tossing or sending to some other destination—it’s our lives. We’ve lived much longer than the forty years we’ve been in this house. Our stuff represents our joint lifetimes and also other lives, across generations.

Doing this was like living through a kaleidoscope.  Click, click, click—going back in time. This was me when I was a child, a young woman, a young mother…

This was Mark, with all his hair and a small moustache, with longer hair, with sideburns down the length of his cheeks. This was our son when he was five, six, seven… I remember the strawberry cake I made for his fifth birthday party… Or that long turquoise party dress with black printed designs that was made of rayon but felt like silk.

Mark had a large cardboard box of “memorabilia” that had been perched on top of his file cabinet for a very, very long time. We both knew he needed to sort through that box. We spent a long afternoon on our porch—both of us reading and/or looking at each item.

Among the items in his box, were funny cards I used to write for him, with simple drawings and little poems. I remember writing many of these—but not all. And that’s a little odd. It’s as if part of my life—my productivity and creativity–drifted out of sight, out of memory.

Part of the criteria is practical: Will we ever “need” this item? Would we want to refer to this information? But the process is neither logical nor scientific. The decision to keep an item is subjective and emotional—how much do I “love” this sketch or letter or sample of writing? How bad will I feel if I toss it into oblivion?

People say that throwing out stuff is cleansing and feels good. That’s true. But there’s something more. The process is a journey—it’s revisiting myself, taking time to remember, taking a last look, and saying good-bye to the me and my world of yesterday