The first couple of times I took great pains to list all my things, categorize them by nature and use, and, once the boxes arrived at destination, to open them promptly and place them quickly in appropriate rooms. Then I grew tired of the routine and took my time opening and arranging the contents. Sometimes a box would not be opened for months; sometimes it would remain unopened and was later simply forwarded to the next country I went to.
Every time I moved, I told myself I would simplify my life and not port so much stuff from one stint to another. After all, I was the 21st century nomad who could get most of the things I needed in the place I went or order online. Yet my boxes grew in number and size, and each successive move seemed burdened with the need to move a larger consignment.
Finally, the truth dawned on me that the life we live, modified though it is at the margin by our circumstances, is substantially the life we create by our omissions and commissions. Whatever we say or think from time to time, essentially most of us don’t want to change anything, and our life flows on, devoid of drama, but also bereft of design.
The gypsy who would never stay put just wouldn’t change his soiled bandanna.