Belonging(s)

I got to thinking about belongings the other day...what they symbolize and what it really means to belong. To start, I have to admit that belongings--things-- really matter quite a bit to me, perhaps more than they do to others I know. I really do hate to admit that. I remember seeing things at my grandparents' house as a child, and actually staking a claim on these things for when they died. I was absurdly fearful of them passing away and thought, foolishly, that if I had this one thing to remember them, I would be alright. But really, what is an espresso maker without actually having coffee with Nonna and Nonno? Things never do matter...or so I've learned. I would prefer to think that the things symbolize a memory...and that without that thing, you still have the memories, right? But what if you have no real memories to conjur up in your mind? What if all that you really had together came in the form of things you acquired?

So perhaps it comes as no surprise that I cling to these belongings, these things, to symbolize that Big Part of my life. In essence, they are all I have left of what was. And they sit now in Shalaina's basement, carefully packed away, some used, some still loved, but most are idle, unused, unloved. They are no longer part of a life, for that life is long over. I think I clung, still cling, to these things because they symbolized not just a period of my life, but also a hope that they would bring Us together, they would mean something to someone other than me.

Think about it: things help to make a house a home, to punctuate an event, to colour a life. They usually come from loved ones, which makes them evermore special. And the great thing about things is that you use them everyday: we cooked on them, ate off them, ate with them...almost like we ate with the people who gifted them to us, shared those small daily moments with loved ones.

But then I remember a more realistic view of what My Life was back then...and it was riddled with dinners alone, dishes washed alone, food packed in Tupperware alone, essentially a lot of lone use, not coupledom. So perhaps the clinging was always there: perhaps I clung to the notion that one day we would share these things together, we would enjoy these small moments together, we would have a life together. And that time never really came.

I hope I'm not painting a picture of lonliness here, for I wasn't really lonely: I had the dream of a richer life to keep me company. And I really did think that day would eventually come. It had to, didn't it? After all, wasn't this what we both signed up for? Apparently not.

So the dishes were packed away, the glasses that did hold some good wine, I will gladly admit that :) were carefully placed in the basement where they reside now. I've stashed the real memories just as carefully in the far reaches of my mind. Dealing is so much harder than just "moving on" and, as it turns out, than moving away. However, it is time to dig up some of those old memories, to sort through them rather than point a blaming finger, and figure out what I did to help it all end so poorly. I think that is what soul searching is all about.

So I've started to think long and hard about what belonging means. He never did belong to me...perhaps for awhile I belonged to him. But we never did belong together. And isn't that the saddest thing? Maybe I clung so hard to the things we had because we never had one another.

I'll raise a glass to this, the first epiphany of and away from My Old Life. I'll toast a life I know I'll have eventually: may it be enriched with the best wines my mouth has tasted yet.