in which I contemplate

Josh is washing the dishes, and the landlord seems to be playing blues guitar, and I saw a tiny patch of blue sky in between the clouds while I was eating dinner, so somehow I'm feeling a deep sense of contentment. My belly is full of vegetables and pirogi (pirogies?). The floors are swept and mopped. The trucker hauling our furniture and books and dishes called today to let us know we should most likely meet him at the customs office tomorrow morning. In a few moments, I will break into a chocolate bar my grandpa sent months ago, a chocolate bar I have moved across international borders in anticipation.

We are not our things.

This thought has occurred to me repeatedly over the past few weeks of living a radically pared-down life (though the computer and internet access does act as a buffer). While I have caught myself repeatedly dreaming of cozying up on my couch with a book, or nestling under more blankets on our bed instead of a futon with two thin quilts, or baking in the muffin tins wrapped in newspaper in a cardboard box that currently rests who-knows-where, I have not felt worried about these possessions. I have felt, instead, that while I am encouraged day after day to buy and build myself of consumer goods, the me-ness of me is not built of my knickknacks or wardrobe or even personal library. In an echoey, chilly apartment, I sit quietly with myself (and my life partner) and sense this, deeply.

It is a good lesson.