Last week we arrived at our townhouse with some suitcases and laundry baskets. The children, typically, needed little to involve their interest:
I, on the other hand, was ready to bid the nomadic life goodbye. All this living out of suitcases business has been nice, but seriously, I wanted to see my overstuffed ottoman! My blue cookbook stand! The Museum of Art rowboat piece! And, oh, the books--hundreds of my books! I almost salivated the next morning as the POD backed in.
The day was too hot for moving. The gum on the pavement was beginning to melt, and the ice cream man was making more money than he should have.
But eight hours, four Papa John's pizzas, and six liters of soda later,it was all here! Our bath towels and bed sheets, the tent and camping chairs, the framed pictures and the world globe--everything was here!
And then, a tinge of guilt: am I shallow to adore these boxes? Didn't I just tell my children about an English girl who left home with one little cherished sugar bowl? Didn't I herald her proper focus and bravery? And aren't I into Thoreau or something? How could it be that I didn't feel like I was home until I had some butcher paper and markers?
I like to think that my idolatry stems from the intangible aspects of my things, like the family memories associated with them. Perhaps the objects create a satisfying, familiar sense of place? Or it could be just plain old, selfish materialism: ship me out to the fourth circle, please! All I can say is that opening up the box with my white kitchen canisters in it felt incredible. I hope to feel the same way when I open the box with my iron in it, wherever it is.