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Published On: Apr 26, 2006 10:02 PM
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Published On: Apr 26, 2006 10:02 PM
Are they really just "things?"
If episodes in one's life have themes, then I
guess the theme for the end part of this deployment would have to be
"Loss."
I've always claimed to believe that I don't place any real value in the things that I own. In college I used to make bold statements about how, if I needed, I could run away taking only a change of clothes, my leather jacket, and my Jeep, and be just fine. As a person born in the 70's, I somehow absorbed that idea that materialism is bad, and that one's possessions aren't important. Or so I thought.
I mentioned in a previous entry the fire that damaged our office. I don't think I mentioned that my backpack was in there. My backpack is, in a lot of ways, a repository of all those things that I value or that I need (or use) on a regular basis. The laptop on which I make these entries was there. So was my iPod. My passport, keys, various important documents, medical records, and even my Social Security Card was in there. On a personal level, my Keeper of Seasons Hall banner that I carry with me and hang over my bed when I'm away from home was in there. The backpack itself was a Christmas gift from my parents, and that gave it value (even if they kept complaining that I didn't want a nice backpack, only a cheap canvas/vinyl thing. What they had in mind was basically a briefcase with straps). For a few hours there, I was left not knowing if this stuff was okay or destroyed.
It was okay, although the backpack still kind of stinks. For that period of time before I knew for certain, though, I had to come to terms with the loss of a lot of stuff.
And of course, there was the loss of the office itself. That hit me kind of hard. It wasn't a possession of mine, of course, but in a way... Y'see, I was there back in 2003 when we moved into that office. We hand-picked that beautiful room with the two huge windows looking out over the lakes of Tikrit Iraq, the marble fireplace, and the huge dangling chandelier, moved in and made it home. Being there for a forced withdrawal, even a temporary one, was a hard thing as well.
On top of that, since we had no way to secure the bulk of our office supplies, donated goods, and furniture, I had to watch while nightly, human scavengers would pick through these things and take what they wanted. We lost a desk, a microwave, all the donated items we had on hand to gradually distribute to the soldiers over the next several months (except for two boxes of tampons, one of which was later ripped open, and a box of douche), personal snacks, our collected tools, and the receiving lens (LMB) for the satellite dish. There was more, but it was just impossible to keep an inventory going. Again, most of these things weren't my personal possessions, but it still hurt like it.
Fast-forward to Atlanta, day before yesterday. I had just made it past the immigration desk, and was standing at the baggage carousel waiting for my duffels, so that I could go through actual Customs. And waiting. And waiting. One of my co-workers who had been on the same plane got her bags and left for Customs. I kept waiting. Another half hour went by. In my sleep deprived state, I was trying to handle this well, but in reality I was wondering what I was going to do without all my stuff, and how I could explain the loss of all the military-issued items I had to turn back in, and was on the verge of panic. At last, my three bags came rolling along, as if nothing had happened, like teenagers waltzing in 6 hours past curfew. And yeah, I was relieved, but I also thought that I had handled it pretty well. I didn't do anything silly, like hug them (although in my sleep deprived state it would have been possible; I get strangely emotional when I haven't slept enough). I just threw them on the cart, wheeled my way through customs, rechecked them to El Paso, and tossed them on a conveyor belt.
I didn't even say goodbye, and maybe I should have, for as of the time of this writing, one of my bags was never seen again.
It was the duffel containing my personal stuff, and only a small amount of military-issued equipment. I won't bore you with another inventory, but it was chock-full of things of sentimental value, like the acrylic hammers that were a birthday gift from members of the board. Four flights have now come in from Atlanta, and one of my co-workers who was also missing a bag has received hers, but the Delta people are starting to ask for my permanent address so that they can send claim forms for reimbursement.
I just wonder how you reimburse someone for items that hold memories.
Items are important to me because of the memories they invoke and the feelings those memories inspire. When I looked at or held those hammers, I remembered the feeling I got when I opened the box and read the accompanying note; that feeling that I had had such an effect on people's lives that they would conspire to find out my address, purchase a gift, and mail it to me in a war zone. My t-shirt embroidered with a hammer, a Keeper of Seasons Hall logo, and a logo incorporating a howling wolf and Tyr rune reminded me of the night Erich and I made t-shirts for the Hall at his old place of business, and the fun we all had the next day wearing them at Pagan Pride Day.
That's the real value of my things. It is said that Odin feared the loss of his ravens Thought and Memory. He feared greatly for Thought, but moreso for Memory. And today I understand that better than before.
I've always claimed to believe that I don't place any real value in the things that I own. In college I used to make bold statements about how, if I needed, I could run away taking only a change of clothes, my leather jacket, and my Jeep, and be just fine. As a person born in the 70's, I somehow absorbed that idea that materialism is bad, and that one's possessions aren't important. Or so I thought.
I mentioned in a previous entry the fire that damaged our office. I don't think I mentioned that my backpack was in there. My backpack is, in a lot of ways, a repository of all those things that I value or that I need (or use) on a regular basis. The laptop on which I make these entries was there. So was my iPod. My passport, keys, various important documents, medical records, and even my Social Security Card was in there. On a personal level, my Keeper of Seasons Hall banner that I carry with me and hang over my bed when I'm away from home was in there. The backpack itself was a Christmas gift from my parents, and that gave it value (even if they kept complaining that I didn't want a nice backpack, only a cheap canvas/vinyl thing. What they had in mind was basically a briefcase with straps). For a few hours there, I was left not knowing if this stuff was okay or destroyed.
It was okay, although the backpack still kind of stinks. For that period of time before I knew for certain, though, I had to come to terms with the loss of a lot of stuff.
And of course, there was the loss of the office itself. That hit me kind of hard. It wasn't a possession of mine, of course, but in a way... Y'see, I was there back in 2003 when we moved into that office. We hand-picked that beautiful room with the two huge windows looking out over the lakes of Tikrit Iraq, the marble fireplace, and the huge dangling chandelier, moved in and made it home. Being there for a forced withdrawal, even a temporary one, was a hard thing as well.
On top of that, since we had no way to secure the bulk of our office supplies, donated goods, and furniture, I had to watch while nightly, human scavengers would pick through these things and take what they wanted. We lost a desk, a microwave, all the donated items we had on hand to gradually distribute to the soldiers over the next several months (except for two boxes of tampons, one of which was later ripped open, and a box of douche), personal snacks, our collected tools, and the receiving lens (LMB) for the satellite dish. There was more, but it was just impossible to keep an inventory going. Again, most of these things weren't my personal possessions, but it still hurt like it.
Fast-forward to Atlanta, day before yesterday. I had just made it past the immigration desk, and was standing at the baggage carousel waiting for my duffels, so that I could go through actual Customs. And waiting. And waiting. One of my co-workers who had been on the same plane got her bags and left for Customs. I kept waiting. Another half hour went by. In my sleep deprived state, I was trying to handle this well, but in reality I was wondering what I was going to do without all my stuff, and how I could explain the loss of all the military-issued items I had to turn back in, and was on the verge of panic. At last, my three bags came rolling along, as if nothing had happened, like teenagers waltzing in 6 hours past curfew. And yeah, I was relieved, but I also thought that I had handled it pretty well. I didn't do anything silly, like hug them (although in my sleep deprived state it would have been possible; I get strangely emotional when I haven't slept enough). I just threw them on the cart, wheeled my way through customs, rechecked them to El Paso, and tossed them on a conveyor belt.
I didn't even say goodbye, and maybe I should have, for as of the time of this writing, one of my bags was never seen again.
It was the duffel containing my personal stuff, and only a small amount of military-issued equipment. I won't bore you with another inventory, but it was chock-full of things of sentimental value, like the acrylic hammers that were a birthday gift from members of the board. Four flights have now come in from Atlanta, and one of my co-workers who was also missing a bag has received hers, but the Delta people are starting to ask for my permanent address so that they can send claim forms for reimbursement.
I just wonder how you reimburse someone for items that hold memories.
Items are important to me because of the memories they invoke and the feelings those memories inspire. When I looked at or held those hammers, I remembered the feeling I got when I opened the box and read the accompanying note; that feeling that I had had such an effect on people's lives that they would conspire to find out my address, purchase a gift, and mail it to me in a war zone. My t-shirt embroidered with a hammer, a Keeper of Seasons Hall logo, and a logo incorporating a howling wolf and Tyr rune reminded me of the night Erich and I made t-shirts for the Hall at his old place of business, and the fun we all had the next day wearing them at Pagan Pride Day.
That's the real value of my things. It is said that Odin feared the loss of his ravens Thought and Memory. He feared greatly for Thought, but moreso for Memory. And today I understand that better than before.
Posted: Tue - July 5, 2005 at 03:58 PM