As I get older I find my sense of sentimentality is growing more refined – what was meaningful to me in the past no longer holds the same meaning and new things become suddenly valuable to me. Part of this, no doubt is due to my wanderlust and the impracticality of hauling accumulated objects from place to place. This spring will mark yet another dwelling to add to my list of dwellings. Its been fourteen years since I have lived in one home for more than two years, a reality that both inspires excitement and fatigue when I stop to reflect upon it. Moving around so much has its benefits or drawbacks, depending upon how one views it. A benefit for me is always that it necessitates getting rid of the layer of useless junk one accumulates after a year or two in one place. It’s a chance to start over and rethink the inane list of the objects I call my possessions.

My dad and I were recently talking with a family friend who commented on the vast collection of antiques, knick-knacks, and tchotchkes that my dad has accumulated over the years. This was in the context of wanting to simplify our respective lives and the benefits of doing so. My dad moved from years of living in four-bedroom homes to a two-bedroom Cambridge apartment and back into a four-bedroom home. Needless to say, I know he is looking for a smaller place and wants to purge a lot of his possessions, but I learn that this is not as easy as one might imagine. While we all agreed there is an ongoing need to simplify our lives, I asked my dad rather bluntly, “But, could you walk away from all of it?” This had him stumped. I suspect I could “walk away from it all,” but I wonder about the psychological toll of that, especially if it were not optional. Then again, the idea of surrendering my possessions seems liberating in one sense. It takes a lot of resources to maintain – think about the amount of time and money we expend just to procure and secure our possessions. Our homes are not just shelter for us, but rather vaults for the material extensions of our lives.

This past weekend I spent 60 hours helping dad pack up all his belongings. We started with the ambitious goal of sorting into what to get rid of and what to keep. Despite tossing 34 bags of garbage out the back door, we still managed to pack a lot of stuff that he probably doesn’t need. His possessions have the added complexity of being “valuable,” a layer of commitment to material goods that I gratefully lack. But it makes me wonder how value is determined. Most people in this culture have possessions that are valueless in any reasonable market, yet are still invaluable to their possessors. I would wager that most of these items are not very useful to us in our day-to-day lives, but we keep them around for the sake of sentimentality. As nice as it always is to watch people take the proverbial walk down memory lane as my dad rediscovered the possessions from his life, I found myself desperately clinging to the notion that a simplified life is a good life. When I arrived home after our marathon packing escapade I found myself depressed by even the relatively small amount of stuff I have in my own house.

This idea of sentimentality in objects is fascinating to me. I have been interested in the phenomenon of attaching sentimental value to places and objects for a long time – in fact, this was born out of my family’s propensity at moving around when I was young. I came to the realization as a teenager that moving away from a place means that you’re leaving behind some of the physical and visual cues that prompt memory. My brain goes into hyper-drive when I return to a place I spent time in as a child, once I reorient myself. But because I haven’t lived in one town for more than six years at any point in my life, this revisiting of memories occurs less frequently than if I had more constant reminders of the past.

I certainly possess quite a few objects that have sentimental meaning to me. A clay pot I made in second grade that now passes as art. A portrait of Geronimo my grandmother bought me in sixth grade after I fell in love with it at an auction. Various prisms and candle holders that belonged to my other grandmother. A rock painted by my grandfather. My mother’s flute, which has been unused since I was ten years old. This list goes on and on. Then I have things like books. Lots and lots of books. Some have more sentimental value than others. Some I keep because it seems practical to do so. Others I will likely never need again. I went through a phase when I thought having lots of books was a sign of something. I collected them, even if I never read them or had a strong inclination to read them. Perhaps this is a different phenomenon, but I suddenly feel nauseous at the idea of carting all these books around with me as some intellectual status symbol.

On the other hand, there’s a lot to be said for the raw emotion that sentimentality stirs.  Despite my love of the rational, I also place quite a bit of stock in genuine emotion.  This weekend, in my brother’s absence, I was charged with packing up his sentimental stash.  Initially, I was cynical about the pile of trophies and knick-knacks that were important to him but as I carefully began wrapping and packing each item, there was a stronger and stronger narrative about him as a person that I felt through these items.  One of the last things of his I found was a case to a CD I made for his high school graduation.  The CD was long gone, but he had held onto the case that had photos of the two of us and an inscription.  I was moved to tears that this piece of plastic and poorly printed paper were important enough to him that he would keep it.  Just when I’m ready to call sentimentality a worthless emotion, it bites me in the butt.

Last week I heard John Lennon’s Imagine while I was driving this morning and the line, “Imagine no possessions,” really struck me for some reason. I think about the idea of ownership a lot in my teaching and personal musings, but rarely envision what it would mean for me to have no possessions. I can’t tell if this is a too-radical approach to the problems of ownership, or if it’s common sense. I do know that in just over a month I’ll be moving into my eighteenth house and I’m not sure what to take with me.