The moving process can be refreshing. Getting rid of all the excess that I’ve accumulated over the years makes me feel lighter. So the past few nights, I’ve been going through the flumadiddle. I have trolls made out of pine cones by my alumna friend in Ireland. I have neatly folded notes from middle school and letters from ex-boyfriends that are now married. Buttons to jackets that were left in New Zealand. Blue Jay stickers. Planners from 2005 full of events like “sledding” and “hurricane party” and “paper due for Yael”. A Starbucks menu written in Greek from my week in Thessaloniki. Books that my Grandma Doris made notes in like “Very good!” Corks from bottles of wine with special people. Crispy and frail leaves from my first Fall in North Carolina. Some of it is flumadiddle, but some is so full of worth to me that I cannot put in the throw away pile.
The real flumadiddle doused in nonsense was the letter to myself that I wrote eleven years ago. The writing alone was so elementary and naive yet dramatic and I was instantly annoyed. I began regretting each note I sent to people when I was younger. I had big dreams. I followed through with going to Mars Hill College. And after that, none of them have come true. Do I wish I had a husband with a few blonde kids and an equally blonde dog named MacGyver to come home to after my day of teaching the youth of America? No. Am I glad I’m leaving for Idaho on Sunday to learn how to ski and sit by fires and meet new people and do whatever I want? Yes. Did I keep the flumadiddle letter and will I be sad/confused/annoyed when I look back at it next time I move? Absolutely.