While nestled in the familiar comfort of Tāmaki Makaurau, I flat-out refused to entertain the idea of sorting through and thinning out my overflowing ‘memory drawer’.
To preface: I am a deeply sentimental person. So much so that I still have perfectly preserved Christmas cards from very distant acquaintances taking up space in my parents' attic. Like an animal collecting materials for hibernation, I was of the nonsensical belief that I needed to store its contents for later, and any attempt to cull my collection was met with a uniquely overwhelming sense of guilt.
While my rational mind understands that it’s completely normal to toss these kinds of mementos after the holiday season has passed, my (dominant) irrational mind considers this to be the utmost form of betrayal. These people took the time out of their busy lives to send me a Christmas card just for it to be discarded after a mere five years? What kind of person am I?
Unfortunately, this mentality wasn’t just reserved for mementos. My closet was overflowing with clothes I hadn’t worn for years, and yet I couldn’t bring myself to donate any because they had too much ‘sentimental value’.
I was under the delusional impression that donating the clothes that my mum had bought me (during my high school days, might I add) was entirely ungrateful and that they would somehow serve a greater purpose in the back of my wardrobe than being worn by someone else. Spurred on by my mother’s reminders that ‘you might want to wear that again one day’, I chose to settle in this gatherer mindset.
That was, until I was forced to cull my belongings down to whatever fit in two large suitcases.
I’ve written about my experience of moving abroad before, but what I haven’t covered is how it affected my relationship with things.
The past year has marked a radical evolution in terms of my relationship with material objects; while fitting all I could into what my upgraded baggage quota allowed, I found it so much easier to let go of the things that no longer served me.
Yes, the offcuts of my memory box still sit in storage at my parent’s house, but would I be devastated if my mother tossed them during one of her deep cleans? Not particularly.
What I carry with me now are only the most important mementos; the ones that remind me of Aotearoa and all the people I care about most. I still consider myself very sentimental, but my loyalty to memories doesn’t smother me like it used to, and I don’t think it will again.
Curating my collection of keepsakes to take with me did ignite an interest in the things we hold on to, even when it means paying a little extra for baggage. When I first moved to Australia, I filled my self-appointed memento allowance with my favourite handwritten notes and cards from my parents (not distant strangers this time), a Kate Knapp ‘Little Book of Love’ annotated by my mother and a jar of squishy rubber lizards.
Like most mementos, there is an explanation. As a nervous kid, one of the very few things that relaxed me was lining up a collection of rubber lizards in order of size and squeezing them three times each (how my family members were surprised by my eventual OCD diagnosis still baffles me). I’ve since lost the original set, but my mother surprised me with near-identical replacements during a particularly stressful exam period, and they’ve been by my side ever since. The Kate Knapp book serves as a stand-in for almost every card I’ve been given by my parents over the last 10 years, during which my family has been totally loyal to the illustrator, and the notes speak for themselves.
Since then, I packed up once again and began a six-month period of full-time travelling. All the same items have come with me, safely packed away in my carry-on, along with a couple of new additions (a book by one of my favourite authors, gifted by my boyfriend, and a Ratatouille keychain from a friend’s trip to Disneyland). I’m keeping it minimal and in doing so, each piece holds so much more value. With a clearer head and lighter baggage, I’ve come to the realisation that this is how mementos should be: something meaningful that you aren’t just holding on to out of obligation.
Like many New Zealanders of a certain age, I’ve lost a large number of friends to foreign shores in recent years. To continue my deep dive into sentimentality, I reached out to see what they’ve held on to after squeezing their whole life into suitcases, and their answers are just as adorable as I expected: Nick holds on to bookmarks and magnets that have been hand-drawn by his niece, Micheal has taken a stuffed Snorlax toy from his hometown all the way to Kent and Sophia has organised for her father's jacket to be sent to London.
The things we keep with us are self-reflections. Each keepsake is just a kaleidoscopic fragment of the experiences and people and places that make up who we actually are.
It’s easy to make a case against rampant materiality, especially in the era of Shein and Alibaba and the rest. However, there’s something to be said about mindful sentimentality and curating your collection of belongings with the Marie Kondo ‘does it spark joy’ mindset.
Writing this, I’m almost 9000 miles away from home, but when I hold those stupid little rubber lizards in my hand, it doesn’t feel that far.
