I got an email from a knitting pal this morning saying that her home had been broken into, ransacked, and numerous items of value were taken. Neither she nor her husband were at home at the time, so there was no physical harm done, but the psychological damage could be long-lasting, and I feel for her.
That email got me to thinking about my things and my sense of security–and understand that I’m only considering those things that I own, and not those of anyone else in the house. In terms of valuables–well, I don’t really have any. I’m not into jewelry or collectibles or art or rare books or any of the many other things folks might want to have. I’d be mighty pissed off if any harm came to my cat, though, and I have a few things that have some great sentimental value, including a birthstone ring my parents gave me when I was fifteen and the jewelry Mr. F gave me. I hold those small items very dear. Aside from those, and maybe my yarn, there’s very little that’s of any value, monetarily. It can all be replaced. Or not.
I’m oddly unattached to my things, yet I hold onto them. “Maybe,” I say to myself, “I’ll need that someday,” or “I’ll fit back into that shirt someday,” or I just ride the fence, unable to decide whether to keep something or get rid of it. Or just the act of packing it up and hauling it out of here daunts me, and so it stays. I don’t need or even want whatever it is, but I can’t bring myself to get rid of it.
I also way overpack if I go anywhere.
We are curious creatures, we humans.