On Friday my mother said she wanted to take a load of stuff to the op shop. I stalled her so I could gather a pile of my own over the weekend so we don’t make two trips. So far I have found things I didn’t even know I still owned.
This afternoon’s task is under my bed. Besides copious amounts of dust and miscellaneous papers that have flown under there over the last two years, I also suspect there are several books, a country road duffel bag, a yoga mat that never gets used, and at least three boxes that I haven’t unpacked since we moved in here.
I obviously have no need for whatever delights await me in these boxes, as they have remained untouched for so long. In fact, I suspect they are the same boxes that remained unpacked and hidden in the top of my wardrobe at our last home of five years, where we attempted to unpack as little as possible as we floated in the limbo caused by local councils and their bureaucratic red tape.
It got me wondering, as things often do, about memory and emotions. I began to ponder the idea of a ’emotional underside of the bed’, where we store memories and information, that whilst not useful to us on a daily basis, at some point was of importance or significance, marking a stage of our lives, or inexplicably shaping who we are. Like my yoga mat speaks of a bygone fitness mania, and the boxes of soft toys and ornaments speak of the innocence of my childhood. I wonder how much of our emotional fluff under our emotional beds are things we could actually recall if need be, or if, based on some primitive survival of the fittest instinct, are things our brain catalogues because it creates our picture, our entity, but that we do not need to remember as though it were yesterday.
Or maybe I just think too much. Particularly when I am procrastinating about vacuuming the dust from under my bed.