This fall marks the 10th time I’ve moved during my Dartmouth career. It’s the 10th time I’ve loaded my life into neat, portable containers and the 10th time I’ve carted those containers up stairwells, through unfamiliar hallways, into new rooms.
This time, I managed to fit everything in a single suitcase and a backpack.
Full disclosure, I used to own a lot more things. Freshman year, I arrived at college armed with six large boxes of shoes, wall decorations and clothing for all occasions. I even brought my own desk lamp and trash can — just in case.
Freshman year was a year of mementos, which slowly accumulated in my desk drawers, in corners of my closet and underneath my bed. There were the posters bought during pre-orientation, borrowed hats, pinnies loudly emblazoned with Greek letters, Mardi Gras beads and, of course, thrifted flair. I felt a compulsion to collect these items, to keep a tangible catalogue of ephemeral experiences, lest they slip away.
My rapidly multiplying possessions made my first packing experience an ordeal. I was headed to China for a foreign study program, and I only had room for the necessities. I carefully packed my mementos — the flair, the posters, the tacky jewelry — away, placing them in storage.
When I reopened that musty box the next fall, my possessions had lost some of their glitz. Perhaps it was the time away, perhaps it was the perspective gained living in a foreign city or perhaps it was the container of face-paint that had leaked all over my frat memorabilia. Whatever the reason, the magic was lost. I salvaged a couple pieces of flair from the box and ended up throwing the rest out.
Sophomore fall began with a whirlwind of movement. Perhaps I should note that my time at Dartmouth has been quite fragmented — I spent a summer in China and a winter in Panama. I did two non-consecutive internships in Connecticut. Between freshman spring and senior fall, I only spent two consecutive terms in any single place.
Each time I packed, I found myself playing that game of trade-offs — did I really need three towels? Or a body pillow? If I only brought three pairs of shoes, I could fit two extra sweatshirts in my suitcase. I found myself throwing away memorabilia and useless decorations and clothes I rarely wore. Minimalism became a creeping, unobtrusive necessity.
I learned to judge things for their necessity, for their durability. What did I need? How much space did it take up? How heavy was it? Most importantly, was it worth it, carrying this thing with me hundreds or thousands of miles to wherever I was going? When I reopened my suitcase, would I find it crushed by distance or neglect?
My minimalism soon extended beyond objects and possessions. I realized I was slowly pruning away people, relationships and even communities. I made these decisions almost unconsciously — while I was phoneless, living out of a backpack in a Central American nature preserve, who would I choose to email when I got a rare, precious hour of Internet access? While I was working 12-hour days at a hedge fund, whom did I want to Skype when I got home at night?
We chose this school because of the D-Plan, right? There are students who have travelled further and been away longer than I. We’re all familiar with fragmentation — we all know (or soon will know) what it feels like to be plunged, ruthlessly, in and out of the Dartmouth bubble. I know I’ve struggled, having 10 short weeks to foster burgeoning relationships, leaving a campus of full of friends and community and returning to feel surrounded by strangers.
There are lucky people out there with a seemingly infinite capacity for storage, who seem to carry all of their relationships and brimming lives wherever they go.
I envy those people.
I, on the other hand, have seen my life here blossom and shrink — I’ve had wonderful terms and I’ve had terrible lonely terms, and I’ve simply come to accept that that’s how life here ebbs and flows. When I look back on my time at the College, I see so few continuous threads that I wonder how my life remains connected at all.
But therein lies the strength of minimalism, I think. The things I have carried with me through my time here — the objects I deemed durable, worthwhile and necessary — have endured.
I suppose it’s traditional to end with piece of advice, so here is mine — find your core. Know what matters to you, and be conscious of when you’re making a choice, whether it be between passions, possessions or people. Perhaps you think you can have it all. Perhaps you can. But if you find yourself floundering, struggling to juggle everything in your life, be careful, lest you inadvertently drop what you truly value. It is better to consciously make choices than to have those choices made for you.
