It's funny, isn't it, how packing up possessions can make you feel bereft? As if you are selling, giving away and forwarding little bitty pieces of your self. A metaphoric dicing and dividing of your 'You'.
We are leaving Australia in about 10 days. We planned to stay here for 6 months, and - inevitably, as time is wont to do - 6 months have passed. Finding myself at the tail end of this period, I grab the ends of the threads that were unwound when we arrived, and roll them back up into tidy balls of life experience. And I note - wonderingly - just how many threads can be unwound in a relatively short time.
I found a job. I worked on a project. They liked me. I worked on a second project. Farewell drinks notwithstanding, I may never see these people again. The new friendships are a bonus, alongside the impetus to earn all-important dollars to fund the next stage of the trip.
The lease on our flat is up. All the money we paid out in deposits is flowing back to us. (OK, there's a big 'hopefully' attached to that statement, but I am optimistic. Or simply naive.)
The possessions we bought when we moved in (and I tell you, we did a kick-arse job of creating a comfortable home within a tight budget and the constraints of ebay and a small car) are racing once more through the ebay conduit, waiting to be packed and posted and picked up over the next few days.
The suitcases are ready to be packed. The boxes ready to be boxed. The shipping company will receive a phonecall in the next week, and our possessions will embark on their own adventure across the oceans, to land in England.
We arrived with a suitcase each, and for 6 months we expanded
to create a fun and full life for ourselves in Sydney. Now, we need to contract. We must get down to the essentials. We can only take what we can carry, and past experience dictates - for me at least - that it must be the bare minimum. Objects must become just objects. There is no room for sentimental attachment.
I remember once watching a movie on TV - while still living in London - that captivated me with a long, lingering shot of the Thames, stopping momentarily on famous London landmarks. I looked at the familiar buildings and, even though at that particular time I had no plans to leave, I felt madly and hugely nostalgic for the place. I missed it even while I was still there.
Today, as I know I am leaving, the nostalia isn't misplaced. I look around my flat, and I miss it already. I look at my view over Bondi Beach, and I feel sadly happy. I quietly wish I could take my nice plates with me.
However, adventures beckon. I have a whole bunch of new countries to discover. I can mourn the loss of other views in different places. I can buy some more nice plates. In the choice between experience or possessions, I still choose experience. For now.
