Remembering Things

I am home. Got here on Christmas Eve's eve and haven't left. That's the problem with home, I never have a whole lot of ambition to go anywhere. Probably because there's not many places to go. Anyways...

It's been good. I've had a lot of great family time, Christmas was wonderful, I've been sleeping on a bed rather than a couch. My allergies are acting up, due to the amount of cats living in the same space as me (in fact, there's one in my bed now; she just won't leave me alone), but that's really my only complaint as of right now.

There has been a lot of cleaning going on in our house the past two days. Three of the four kids have clean rooms (and there's really no hope for a perfect four for four, Bradley is kind of a slob; and by kind of, I mean a total slob...). I spent well over seven hours unpacking, cleaning, rearranging, and organizing my room so I'd have space to live and breathe for the next few months as I figure out my life. My little sister also spent the better part of yesterday cleaning her room and getting it ready for us to paint later next week. Today Josh cleaned and rearranged his room as well. We've been busy.

I don't know if it's just our family, but we kind of like watching each other clean. I'd take a break and go watch Sara put away her clothes. Sara'd get bored and come watch me organize books. Tonight I spent about half an hour watching Josh clean his room. I'm not sure why this is a trend, but I've noticed it before.

I've also noticed how much stuff we actually have. I will be real -- I like my stuff. Very rarely do I feel guilty about how much I have, and maybe that makes me a terrible person. But when the majority of my personal belongings are books, I find it hard to feel too terribly guilty. So sue me.

It occurred to me tonight that much of what we keep around is quite useless. In my room above my window I have a shelf filled with mementos from my childhood, knick-knacks and stuffed animals that have stuck around. Truthfully, I remember getting, or even liking, two or three of the things on that shelf. Yet I keep them. Why?

We keep things to remember what we think is important. Not a bad thing. But when we keep so much that it all becomes meaningless, is it worth it? Like when I found a couple of bolts in my dressing table yesterday, it took me about three minutes to remember why I had them, but I knew they had to mean something, otherwise I wouldn't keep a couple of bolts. Eventually I remembered, but if it wasn't important enough to remember right away, was it important enough for me to throw them back in the drawer?

And if I was too young to remember liking that stuffed animal on the shelf, is it worth it to keep it? It isn't a part of my memories; if anything, it is a memento from my mother's past, not mine. So do I ditch Funny Bunny, or does he get to keep his place on the shelf because my mother can remember how much he made me laugh as a baby?

Maybe I'm only thinking about these things because everything I own, outside of a few large pieces of furniture, is somewhere stashed in this bedroom. How much do I need in order to remember?  When do we become crushed by the things that are supposed to be reminding us of something that we don't really need something physical to remind us of?

I don't have the answers. I only got rid of one garbage bag of things for Goodwill, none of which are the mementos that are still haunting my room. Obviously I have no answers. I guess that's okay, just something to think about.

Until next time.