Letting Go Is Hard To Do

There's a saying that you take after your parents. Every day, I'm finding more truth to that statement. As I was packing my things to move to my new place, I realized that I picked up their habit to save every damn thing that comes in my path.

I noticed from a very early age that my parents were really good at saving stuff. I used to think it was normal, until I'd go to other people's houses and realize that they really don't have as much stuff saved as we do. My mom would have all sorts of things saved. Some stuff had sentimental value (like pictures, trinkets from weddings and baptisms), some had utilitarian value (like scrap pieces of wrapping paper, the plastic Christmas tree we assembled every year or the plastic and paper bags from the grocery store), and the rest would get into a Balikbayan box and sent to the Philippines (spam, candy, and lots and lots of clothes). As for my Dad, the accountant in him surrounded himself with books on tax code, records, paper, pens, and lots of spare change. I grew up with the mentality that if you're going to get something, you better use it to the fullest, or you are letting it go to waste. It was in those moving boxes that I found shades of my parents. I found a box of old pictures, some old presents from Kris Kringles past, old textbooks and training worksheets, toys, certificates of merit, and of course, old bags from the grocery store.

I was happy that I kept my parents' efficient utilitarian spirit, except for the fact that the mental upkeep is emotionally inefficient. It physically and emotionally would have been so much easier to throw so much of the stuff away, but then the voice inside me asks: are you sure you want to do that? If you throw away those CDs, what if you want to listen to them again? If you throw away those books, will you remember what you learned from them? If you throw away those bags, where will you put your garbage? If you throw away those little trinkets, will you forget the events that they represented?

It's strange; I'm at a point where it's even easier for me to let go of people than my things. I guess when you are forced to let go of people who are dearest to you, like a beloved grandfather, grandmother, or cousin, you learn that their death doesn't mean that they're gone, or that you'll ever forget. Maybe it's all a big lie, but if it is, then there's no better lie that has helped me cope with life. It's helped me say goodbye to good friends, knowing that not even death, let alone a few years or a few thousand miles, could break us apart. I sometimes have even come to look forward to saying goodbye, thinking about all the opportunities that await the both of us, and how our influence will multiply from our separation.

But with things, they are dead until you give them life. That was my gift to them, to keep those things until I could give them life. In turn, those things gave me security. I found security in the idea that if I keep these things around me, then I will never be desperate for anything. I would never need paper for printing. I would always know about computers because I had textbooks. I would always know about community organizing because I have my training manuals. I would always know about the Asian American community because I had my readers. I would never forget my friends, because I have all these things around to remind me of them.

But being surrounded by all these things that bring up so many emotions and memories suck up so much energy that I find that it's harder to absorb new ideas or new memories. I'm surrounded by my perfect world in inanimate things, that I can live inside my memories, even if it's all really a dream.

A while ago, my sister wrote pieces about letting go of things to find balance and the nature of moving. With a new job, a new place, and a new life, letting go is probably the best thing I can do right now. But it's so hard to do.