Moving again: what we keep and part with tell us who we are.
Packing and unpacking is a rite of passage that leads us into a new phase in life.
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I write about many things personal: growing up in China and finding home in the U.S., the bittersweetness of a life between two cultures, and the stories that gave me strength along the way, from books, films, and real life.
If you’ve been here before, I appreciate you for sticking around!
Two months ago, when I started packing for our move, a thick white envelope with my mom’s handwriting stood out from my postcard and letter pile, inside was an eight-page handwritten letter my mom sent me when I was two months into my freshman year in the U.S. I asked her to write the letter, for reasons I cannot recall anymore. All I could remember was that I was very into hand-written letters at the time and was terribly homesick. It traveled by sea or air for a month before it landed in my mailbox, and it has been with me since then.
With no families close by, moving has been some of the most vulnerable and unclear moments in my life: moving into my freshman dorm by myself when everyone else was surrounded by their families; moving to a new state after college graduation with no job lined up; going to graduate school alone in Michigan not knowing what the future holds, and starting a new job alone in Arizona not sure how much longer would it be until I could be in the same city with my partner.
In her hand-written letter, my mom talks about many things: her recent travel, her hope that I’d fall in love with nature like she had when she was younger, her advice on starting a new life, love, and relationships, how she is very proud of me, and that she thinks I will do fine in life. Whenever I was packing for the next move, I’d take the neatly folded pages out of the envelope and read her words all over again. This time, they still brought me the familiar comfort and strength.
I’ve moved countless times across cities and states since I came to the U.S. twelve years ago. Sometimes I moved with less, and sometimes more. Each move was unique and different. Yet one thing remains unchanged: packing and unpacking reveal so much about our lives and memories, what matters to us, and who we are.
The comforter cover I brought with me from China to the U.S. had been accompanying me into my deep slumbers since I was twelve and lasted through four years of college. I replaced it after I moved in with my husband because it was too small for two people. Even after its retirement, it followed me through many more moves and still quietly sat in the drawer underneath our bed when I started packing, reminding me of its comforting presence.
After years of wear and laundering, the fabric loosened, the red and white color faded, and the zipper frayed. Yet, when I held it close and took a deep breath, it still carried a tiny scent reminiscent of my childhood home, a smell both far away and intimately familiar. I don’t see myself using it again, so I thought maybe this was finally time to let it go. I walked around while holding it, hesitating. My husband saw me and said I should hold on to it for a little longer. I did not disagree. I was glad he decided for me this time, so I didn’t have to.
I am now starting to understand the value of people paying professional packers. Not only that they are professionals, but they are also not attached to the things they pack. For them, things are just things, not things with over a decade of memories and emotions. For those of us who don’t want to pay for professional packers, maybe packing and unpacking is a rite of passage that leads us into a new phase in life, letting go of things that we no longer need and appreciating the things that continue to comfort us through life’s ups and downs.
Some decisions are easier. The black and white checkered dress with thin and cheap fabric reminded me of an impulsive purchase at Norstrom Rack a few years ago when I needed new pieces for my first job out of graduate school. It was a period in my life where price topped quality. I knew its time was up.
I also added the grey Madewell sweater I bought in 2014 to the donation pile. I bought it with my meager DC internship salary and justified it with the good quality, but it was the cool zipper in the back that sold me on it. It seemed so indestructible and cute at the time, and now loose threads are popping out everywhere, and a hole is steadily expanding in the left elbow area. Ten years, it served me well.
The things we own tell stories of the places we have been, the people we met, and the decisions we made. Each souvenir, trail map, travel guidebook, seashell from a beach, and museum ticket contains an adventure story. The cards, letters, and gifts that survived many cross-country moves remind us of the people we care about and those who care about us, those who entered our lives and left, and those who love and continue to do so, even from afar.
Two weeks in, the box mountains in our new living room have dwindled, things have found their new locations, and we are settling in. It is starting to feel like home again.
My Question for You
Can you think of something you no longer use but still hold on to, and probably won't let go of anytime soon? Why is that? What story does it tell?
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A rite of passage. That was a wonderful way to put it, about packing/unpacking and moving!
I, like yourself, have moved many times since I came to the States more than 35 years ago. It is ironic that I never moved once before the big inter-continent move, not even for college - I lived at home and walked to my college.
Fast forward, I just spent days packing and unpacking last month, not for my own move, but to help my 90-year-old mother move. And I clearly had a different idea than she when it comes to what to pack and what to let go. It is a story for another day.
I don’t think I have kept anything that I brought on my initial trip. What I have are memories and mental images, those I now work hard to bring them live in words.
I still sleep with the same fleece camping blanket I brought to Japan 26 years ago. It is thinner than before, but there are no holes yet. I still have some shirts from thirty years ago, which have miraculously survived time and changes in fashion. And, of course, I have many books that have followed me over the years. Don't give away your books. I miss each one I left behind.