The significance of stuff

Sometimes brief moments of nostalgia come upon me. It’s like the sun in Oregon during rainy season (basically the entire year). Here for a few moments and then gone again. I had one of those tonight.

I’ve been packing up my stuff for the last couple days. Moving time. The majority of my stuff in boxes, I went to take down the art and notes on my walls. The bare yellow staring at me, a pile of notes and pictures in hand, it sunk in. Transition. Change. The act of moving.

As I rustled through the hundreds of words I saved because they touched my heart, something stirred in me. That pile of stuff ready to load into the truck means nothing. It’s nice to have a warm blanket, a mug for tea, and a couch to sit on, but it doesn’t compare to the faces that come to mind from a pile of memories.

I’m thankful for the people I get to share life with. The ones who’ve cried with me, walked with me, sat there when there was nothing more to say, loved me in spite of my quirks, believed in me, encouraged me to press on, taken silly pictures with me, and made me smile.

At the end of the day (and the last of the packing), I don’t care about the stuff, but the people who make life wonderful.

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