Goodbye, Things

3 min read

My life up to this point can be characterized as a series of small and big moves. From the time my grandparents retired to their farm house about half an hour drive from downtown before the roads were paved, I had been moving homes. Waking up at five in the morning just to be in school at seven thirty made me lethargic. After trying out several arrangements, including a stint living with my then bachelor uncle who seemed to have forgotten a nine year old needed breakfast for sustenance, I finally settled to living with one of my aunts whose house in the city was walking distance from school. There was a sense of permanence for some time.

At 16 came the first major move. College was a two-hour airplane ride away from home. It was the first time I would be separated from my family for a long period of time. I had to live in a residence within campus. But because the Office of Student Housing liked to play Russian roulette on students’ dormitory slots, each year I needed to pack all of my belongings, boxes of heavy books and reading materials, carry them into storage, and hope to god I have a bed to return to the following academic year. I ended up living in three different dorms during my five year stay in the university. When it was time to leave the campus, I’ve accumulated way too many things than my hundred pound body could carry. It was impractical to bring them along with me to my next destination so I bade my things goodbye.

I lived with my mother when I first moved to Halifax. It was the prudent choice at that time. Though I have always been forthcoming about my desire to live separately, I think my mother still felt disheartened when I decided to live elsewhere in the city. Sorry Mom.

Canada was a comfortable place to live in. Friendly people, great vibe. Winters can be a little harsh and long but it’s still overall one of the best countries to build a life in. I would not have thought of leaving except an opportunity that was too good to pass up on came by. I took it and for the nth time, packed my life into a suitcase, moved halfway across the world. This time to Hong Kong. I stayed there for two years and fell in love with everything about it. But all good things must come to an end.

When the secondment ended, I faced a dilemma. To stay in Asia or to move back to Canada. The latter was the easier choice. I had a job waiting for me in my old company, and an unfinished business to attend to. I love Halifax. I will always have a soft spot for it. But the city became a little too small, too stifling. Canada became too far, too cold, and too expensive. I made a choice to leave at once. Again to my mother’s disappointment. Sorry Mom.

Onward to my next and current pit stop: Singapura. I like this city. It’s a pragmatic choice. I can’t say for certain how long I’ll stay this time but I’m not looking to go elsewhere yet.

This brings me to the point I really wanted to drive at before I got carried away by my storytelling. When you move as much as I do, when you always have to fit your life into a two-luggage airline imposed limit, you learn to let go of material things. I realized I was already Marie Kondo-ing the shit out my stuff before Marie Kondo was even popular. I became a minimalist not by choice, but by circumstance. I don’t get attached to things. It took five generations of iPhone releases to make me finally decide an upgrade to my dying 16 gigabyte phone was necessary. If my life is better or worse for it, I don’t know. What I know is that I certainly do not feel bogged down by my possessions and I am not in any way defined by the things I own.

I am not a minimalist by its austere definition. Staunch minimalists might scoff at the amount of things I still own. I like to treat myself to nice things from time to time. But over the years, I have learned to stifle my propensity to accumulate things and in turn, discard excess emotional baggage.

Filed: Extraordinary