The Stuff

Coming back to the US for Christmas break was a marathon of packing.
Shopping for gifts small enough or light enough to fit into three bags. What? Yes, I traveled with six big red bags to the US. The other three? Oh, they were filled with empty cardboard boxes and one extra large duffel bag. Yes, I was planning on filling three suitcases and the extra large duffel bag while in the States. And I did. Thank- you- very- much.

One month later, packing for the return trip was very much like packing that first time around back in July. Stressful.
How to cram everything into seven suitcases?! A 6-month supply of so many items we felt we really needed but couldn't find or didn't want to fork over the extortioner's prices charged in S.P.., new toys I thought they would , "get so much out of", stuff for the kitchen, stuff for the winter season, stuff for Alex, stuff for me... And still many things were left behind....

Things carry great weight. Is it because things cause such stress? Stress to find the right things, at the right price. Stress to purchase over the Internet and pay the shipping fee, or trudge out into the winter landscape of Chicago's suburban malls - to find or not to find....
stress over how much it weighs, and how to package it just right so that in case the suitcase is opened, I am not exposed for what I am: an importer! will they charge me if I have 10 tubes of crest extra whitening tooth paste in my suitcase? do I pack them all together or waste plastic zip lock baggies on 10 separate tubes and disperse them? how many fit into a sneaker?

And once the stuff is in the suitcase, and the red bag is zipped, it has to be weighed. 70 lbs, not an ounce more. Shit! just over the mark! lug the thing back down to the floor, unzip it, and rummage around to find the one thing that will make the difference. I feel I am trapped in a Froggie book: zoop! zap! zip! and still, after all his efforts, little Froggie does not go out to play in the snow because he forgot his long under ware, and now he is just too tired to take all his clothes off one more time. So, he goes back to bed.
But I can't go to bed. In fact I can't sleep! No! This has to be done. Zoop! Zap! Zip! This organizing of the Stuff. And indeed, for three days, it is the all consuming project. Stuff over flows and over takes my "vacation".

Do we really need all the stuff?
The thoughts swirl, hovering above "no".

On the other side, I think, things will look different. That is once we have successfully passed through customs. Hmmm....

Our I-can't-get-these-kids-to-stand-still-and-be-quiet kids were for once a boon.

Just imagine adding another hour or more to an already long painful morning of: landing, standing in line, sweating, standing in line more, running off for the bathroom, running back for Kleenex because there is no toilet paper, running back to the bathroom and finally back to the line only to find it hadn't moved much, sweating more, drinking warm water, playing every version of 'I spy' one can think of, standing, sitting, children crawling around on the floor, children whining, children crying, children running under all the lane barriers to the very far end of the room and refusing to come back into the line (who can blame them really)...and then finally(!) the passports are pushed under the glass barrier, the official at her computer terminal asks us about the stamps, the forms, the extra papers. While we are trying to answer all her questions in Portuguese without loosing track of the kids or saying the wrong things (= confusing her and standing around some more), I am wondering if the customs official at the end of the hall way will stop us and demand to go through our stuff.
As we approach, each pushing a towering cart of suitcases, he waves Alex over. The kids get restless again, and I sigh, and then they explode as they sense our newly found forward momentum is coming to an end. They melt quickly. The light in the customs official's eyes fades. His almost hungry look turns to a sour apathy. He counts, he remarks on how much stuff we are pushing, Alex makes a 'second half of the move' joke- to which the customs official retorts 'better be careful next time'.

IS HE KIDDING?!

Right then, all I want to do is yell, 'Hey! What about that family of four right in front of us! They are pushing at least 15 bags! You didn't say anything to them about THEIR STUFF!' But I restrain myself and we move on.

Had the customs official actually stopped us and rummaged through the bags, I think we would all have imploded. Right there- a puddle of American frustrations- yuck.

Once in the lobby area of the airport, we scan for a driver holding a "Navarrete"sign. The boys are elated with this new space, and begin to run around in big circles yelling and playing a spontaneously created Stars Wars game. The carts of luggage function like shields, bases, "Darth Vader's hideout!". No other child in the terminal lets loose like this. With our bags towering above us like the leaning Tower of Pisa in technicolor and two loud stir crazed children, we quickly become the focus of attention from every direction. Despite our discomfort, we give them a minute to release some steam, hoping the driver for the van we hired will rise from beneath floor tiles like a genie out of a bottle at any minute.
But he does not.
It takes some time to figure out he is at another terminal. Then it takes him an hour to find us. As he arrives, the boys are reigned in and confined to the area just around our two carts. The few Reais I had in my purse went for cantina-like coffee, dry sandwiches, and cold water. It must have been 85 degrees in the airport lobby area. Even our stuff looked like it was sweating.

By early afternoon, we are all loaded up, and ready for the hour-long drive to our Brazilian home.

As the clouds gather for the daily afternoon downpour, we arrive.
The big red bags are unloaded on the sidewalk because the van does not fit through the security gates. Together, Alex and I carry them one by one up a small set of stairs through the security gates and into our lobby. Cool air greets us.
Once we, the car seats, the kids and all seven bags are upstairs - several trips in the small elevator- I am filled with childlike anticipation at the thought of opening all that stuff!

A day later, the daunting task begins.
For many days, I am absorbed in the undoing of the carefully packed suitcases. In a way it feels like peeling a gigantic onion, or unwinding a huge ball of yarn. Unloading the clothes, the shoes, the extra clothes for next season, the spices, cleaning products, toiletries, games, stuff wrapped in stuff and more stuff. At some point I stop and look around. Quickly I tally the days... it seems I have spent an inordinate number of days thinking about and dealing with all this stuff.
Is it worth it?

Suddenly the suitcases see small.
The contents seem all wrong.
So much is missing.

I wish we'd brought back different stuff!
Well, not entirely. Some items bring a tingle of joy- an elation of sorts- as if a small victory had been won.

And this leads me to ask, to try to ask:
What is the importance of stuff in our lives?
We all collect more than we need. Some of us collect more than that. Some of us are good at recycling- giving it away- tossing it away, never buying it in the first place. Some of us are less good at this. But regardless, why all the effort?

Stuff collects dust. Stuff attracts mold. Stuff binds emotions- emotions tied up in memories we are afraid we will forget. Stuff, our physical reminder that we have done something, been somewhere, said something that was once meaningful. And still is meaningful because we can share it all over again, relive it in some way- because we have the stuff to show for it.

Stuff is a burden. A reminder of something not accomplished. A nagging, a gnawing, a persistent scratching of the surface.

Stuff is heavy. Seven times 70 pounds of stuff! My back hurts, my shoulder hurts. I have bruises from hauling it, pushing it, pulling it.

Stuff once unpacked, and put into context: a home: becomes a part of the fabric of home. Stuff transforms. We feel transformed by the stuff. Oh look at my new pillow cases! Now the sofa is comfortable to sit on, and I have something to hold while I read, or talk.......Oh look at the vase on the table, now the table doesn't look so empty- it looks more" alive". Now I feel like I am here- the stuff has personalized this otherwise impersonal space.

I just love this new pot! Can't wait to cook with it!
Microfiber to save the day!

Stuff.
That Crest toothpaste is soooo great! It doesn't get all gooey like the Crest I can buy here, and it tastes "better". So glad I used all those plastic baggies.

But once stored in cupboards or put to use, the importance of the stuff, the expectation of the relief the stuff will bring, ultimately fades.

On occasion I delight in something I brought back. Like the new coffee pot. I have steaming coffee in three minutes every morning. And the nice smelling hand cream does bring on a smile whenever I pass a hand in front of my face- say in traffic as I am about to collide with a bulldozer like SUV. And I do like the Crest better.

Stuff is not a total waste of time. However, for the first time I am really coming to realize how many things we gather around us to create comfort. And this in turn prompts me to wonder about comfort. Where and how we seek it, for example. And the role of all these things in securing this feeling. How deeply we feel the ability to "be comfortable" in ourselves vs. the creation of comfort zones outside ourselves seems to be at the heart of the matter.

Whilst I try to come to some deeper conclusion about comfort, I will undoubtedly continue to seek out those things which I feel we need for our life here in Brazil filling my suitcases with stuff on each return trip.