preparing the way

After a blinding revelation yesterday, I have begun weeding out my possessions with a never-before-seen determination. As I stood in the trailer dejectedly surveying the wealth of crap that I needed to pack, most of which I would have to pay to put in storage, I suddenly straightened up with the thought: Why? If I don't want to pack it, I don't want to keep it. A grin started to form at the corners of my mouth as various paraphrases of Thoreau flashed in mental neon across my frontal lobe. Then I hunted down the garbage bags and started stuffing them with the things that I have allowed to become, not sources of comfort and joy, but balls and chains.

It was thrilling, a little frightening, immensely satisfying, to sort through objects I had never thought of discarding, picking out only the ones I really wanted -- and could justify taking with me on future moves. I decided to limit myself to one box of trinkets, some of them sizeable, and, chewing on my lower lip, I ticked off lists of possessions in my mind, coming down to the realization that I only care about my music, my kitchen stuff, my books and my movies, with a few items I've collected over the years which possess a sort of spiritual significance.

And even within those primary keep-it categories, particularly the books, music and movies, I can do some sifting. Plenty of chaff has accrued there as my tastes have become honed, my identity more refined. I have taken great pride in my collection of 800-odd books, but a lot of them I never intend to read. The classics, for example: I have no desire ever to open the covers of Bleak House. Or A Tale of Two Cities. I think I won't apologize to anyone anymore for not wanting to read them. Some of the contemporary stuff, too -- I truly hate A Prayer for Owen Meaney. So why have I kept it so long?

I'm doing some serious contemplation of what I want, and what I'm supposed, to do with the rest of my life, finally taking into account the ever-present restlessness that burns in my blood like acid and resurfaces after six months of any given relocation. I want to be some kind of pioneer. There's so much world to see, and I haven't seen any of it. I know that whatever God has in store for me includes something huge, some vast expanse of horizon, some place I never imagined, and, since I'm not getting any postcards in the mail saying, Go Here. Do This. Love, God, I think it's time I consider how to strike out to go meet Him: to "rise on the wings of the dawn...[to] settle on the far side of the sea," where "even there His right hand...will hold me fast."

With that idea germinating (which I'm watering with much prayer and mulching with much thought and exuberance), I'm paring down my possessions in light of the idea of living a life of mobility -- of being ready to drop everything and go live in Brazil, or Australia, or New Zealand, or Madagascar. I've also decided, finally, to save up for an iPod, one that can accommodate my collection of CDs -- a lot of albums I can buy in the future are cheaper purchased as mp3s, and, although I love the physicality of a purchase, love to run my fingers over the jewel cases and gloat over how many works of my beloved artists I own, it's much more practical to slip one's iPod in a pocket of one's carry-on than to box and ship a couple hundred CDs. (Of course there may be electronic factors that I in my innocence/ignorance don't yet know about, but there will be time, and there will be time.)

So even this part of my present circumstances has become not mundane, but thrilling; no longer an obligation, but purposeful -- working toward something bigger, something broader, something more adventurous. I was watching an infomercial yesterday while chowing down on some lunch, and it advertised this broom-type cleaning product that was supposed to get all the sticky off hardwood floors and smeared mirrors, and I felt a sudden twist of horror at the idea of having my life, and the things I buy, focus around a big expensive house with big expensive floors, a museum-turned-tyrant which would demand all of my resources, including how I spent my little bits of free time. I want my free time truly to be free; I want to be free; and I have no intention of giving up that freedom for a picket fence and a two-car garage.

I want the same things I always did -- home, family -- but I don't want them in the usual way. I want to carve out my own space, my own definitions. I've never been like anyone else in any other respect; why should my destiny look like anyone else's? Why should I keep trying to be like everybody else? The traditional ambitions are great for them, are good in general, are wonderful; but I'm drawn to something different...something undefined...something unwritten. Something all mine. And I'm finally starting to be ready to begin to embrace it. It'll take planning, and prayer. But I'm excited.