Ode to the Hermit Crab

There have been many times that I sat down to write since my last entry, but I decided that my content was getting to be depressing. Therefore, I promised myself that I would wait until I could be more positive in my writing to post again. And after seeing the number of views in the last few weeks, I thought I owed it to you to at least say hello, and to thank you for checking out my blog.

As some of you know, I recently completed yet another move. This one was the best yet, into a very special home that I supervised being built from the ground up. The inside of the house has become comfortably and efficiently appointed, but the garage is packed to the ceiling with stuff. I don't know what else to call it. If it's not useful enough or necessary for daily activity, it's not inside the house; it's in the garage, and immediately relegated to the status of stuff. Consequently, it is impossible to park a vehicle in there. And there's room for two. There's merely a two-foot-wide swath from the garage door to the interior door that I know so intimately I can navigate it in the dark.

On a whim, I counted up the number of times I have moved possessions, whether my own or on behalf of someone else, and I came up with a minimum of 14 moves, between four states, since 1993. Folks, that is a lot of stuff shuffling.

Most people hate to move. They become accustomed to having things a certain way, and become uncomfortable or resentful when their routine is disrupted, or when circumstances force them to locate new digs. I, on the other hand, find moving to be cathartic. Twisted, I know.

I try to look at moving from the hermit crab's perspective - as it grows, it casts off its old home once it has found a suitable replacement (condo to house); when times are good, and all his brethren are growing, too, he may have many different homes to choose from. Sometimes, however, its current shelter becomes damaged and the crab may be forced to move into a less accomodating shelter (house to studio apartment), if that's the only thing available to him at the time. The only thing missing from his moves is stuff.

Yet every time a move takes place, I find myself rediscovering the hidden pleasure of taking inventory of my stuff. Books I'd forgotten that I owned. Letters I'd forgotten I received. Gifts from loved ones that I was saving for a rainy day. Very few things of value, but countless things that hold within them a tiny joy simply by being possessed, rediscovered, and appreciated anew every time they are moved to a new location.

Perhaps that's the difference between a house and a home. Stuff.