Raw Material

Packing up. A strange experience, particularly when you are leaving for a year. You get the benefits of a move: excitement, farewell drinks, well wishes without the sadness of real goodbyes. One of the many benefits of leaving is the appreciation that comes up for all you have; your friends, your family, the institutions you embrace. Plus you get to step away from the pieces that bother you. This last week has been spent primarily at the pack and ship store, and then on the trainer’s table getting my back readjusted from lifting heavy loads of my life. Today I took an important box into town; inside were my books. Not my book club or cookbooks, but the ones I keep under my bed. Most are great—my faves—I thought I’d bring them along for writing inspiration and to peruse at night before turning out the light. It’s my favorite kind of reading. But some—of the L. Ron Hubbard sort- I reserve for my eyes only. And for that reason I had packed them neatly, and methodically, with the most benign yoga and photography books layered on top. I live in a small town; in fact, it’s where I grew up. It was a wonderful place to be raised and it’s every bit as great a place to raise kids now, but it’s still the place where I was an awkward thirteen year old. For some reason I think it’s hardest sometimes to think or do the alternative with the people who knew you when you were in braces and knee socks. Lets’ just say the town square of my hometown would not be the first place I would choose to reveal the contents of my private reading stash. And of course that’s exactly what happened today in Market Square. Of all 21 boxes and 8 duffle bags I’ve hauled to town and unloaded, no problem, which one do you think decided to spontaneously tip over and  pour its contents out for the world to see? As I opened the back of my car, in a scene only Larry David could make up, my book box tipped over, unfolded itself, and  spilled out each and every item with-no exaggeration-80% of the twenty-five books landing face up in the street. In a combination of horror and uncontrolled laughter I scrambled to try to cover the titles and get them loaded back into the box. Telling Secrets. Man in the Woods. Spontaneous Healing. Wild. How to Talk to Your Teenage Son. Wherever you go there you are.  The Spirituality of Imperfection. Mere Christianity. Eat Pray Love. Meditation for Busy People.  My Life in The Middle Ages. All great books—but the sum total definitely indicating there might be some sort of serious mid- life crisis in effect. (Hello?!) I’m convinced it was a sign that it’s time to let go….or maybe time to reel it in.  As Nora Ephron says, “It’s all material.”