the move 1

Packing is always a trip, pardon the pun. I'm unpacking the bins that my stuff has been confined in for the past year, and repacking them in some organized (and padded) manner. In the process, I've been running across my past.

Yesterday, I came across a small photo album with pictures from high school. Most of these were from the last few months of senior year. It was good to see faces of friends and teachers I haven't seen since. I also noticed that I wore my hair pretty much the same way. I look so young in those pictures! It's amazing how much difference 8 years makes. I'm not "old" but the Anna in those pictures is "young."

I also found my notes from the creative writing class from college. For the first time since that class, I read my poems and short stories. I couldn't remember writing most of them, but I really enjoyed reading them. A few were quite good (in my subjective opinion). I briefly considered posting a few of them here on the blog, but I decided against it, for now.

Today, I found my yearbooks from high school and college. The college yearbook was mostly a waste of money. Of the roughly 4,000 seniors, I knew only a handful. The book is filled mostly with Cornell propaganda and advertisements, and pictures of every Greek house on campus. It's not signed by anyone, and really has nothing of personal value in it. My high school yearbook, by contrast, is filled with memories. I reread some of the notes written for me. Many were from friends I haven't spoken to (or thought about) for a long time, a few were from friends I've recently rediscovered. A few notes were heartwarming. I wish I'd kept a copy of all the reciprocal notes I left for others. What did I write, and who did I write it to? Many were probably "have a great summer and good luck in college," but a few were more personal. I guess that's part of the process. You leave a part of yourself with others accepting the risk that they will disappear and take that part with them.