The moving van is loaded with my crap. By crap I really mean my treasures, except that they are mostly not. It is really the memories that are attached to these objects or the possibilities that they represent that somehow transform them into treasures.
My Jordanian serving dishes are a memory of seven years spent in the Holy Land, a reminder of Arab hospitality, and the possibility of many a good meal to be served to friends. The Palestinian wine glasses hold memories of long nights of merriment. Although I have yet to break one, I bought 18 with the hope of being left with a small set 20 years later with which to continue to make memories.
There is a box of pottery that represents a year of being soothed by the repetition of a potterâ€™s wheel, of letting beauty be created from my hurt and exhaustion. There are fragrant spices that have slowly been collected from around the world that bring my food to life. There are boxes of journal papers and field notebooks that are a testimony to five years of research at Notre Dame and in Benin. There are boxes of photos and enlarged prints that are a reminder of where I have been and the people that fill my heart.
There is an art table at which to create. There is a breakfast nook at which to serve meals. There is camping gear galore. There is a bed on which to sleep.
These are all just things, just crap of one sort or another. I could loose it all and I would still be complete, and yet in moving it from my home to what will become my home, there is a process of remembering. A processes of saying goodbye, letting go, and opening the arms and heart wide to the next place that will hold all my crap.
An so, tomorrow morning circa 7am, the moving van, me, and all my crap are on the road to Nashville.