Worth Saving?

Checkmate Monday Blues! For this antioxidant smoothie, I combined 1 cup of frozen, mixed berries with 1/2 a cup of unsweetened pomegranate juice and a little bit of water.

The other day, as I was browsing through some old magazines that I was about to throw out, I read this interview with Russell Simmons. He was asked what he’d rush in to retrieve in case of a fire in his house. Simmons answered:
“Nothing. I’m blessed to have a lot of beautiful things in my home, but there’s nothing I’d risk my life for.”

Of course, when I read that I immediately started to think what I’d rush in to save in case of a fire in my home.

A similar issue came up frequently in our discussions last year, when we seriously were contemplating relocating to Sweden. For months, my husband and I were talking about it back and forth; like a never-ending tennis match.

“How about we move next summer?”
“How about next fall?”
“Should we start looking for how much containers cost?”
“Not yet… And what do we bring anyway?”

Yes, what do we bring? What do we leave behind? What’s worth saving? What do we rush in to save in case of a fire?

I’ve been living in the States for over twenty years, that’s a lifetime. During those years I’ve accumulated stuff like any other person. But a transatlantic move like mine also implies transporting roots. And I’ve come to understand that roots are not just DNA and traditions, roots also – fortunately or unfortunately – mean stuff. I have had stuff from Sweden shipped to me, and some I have brought over myself, little by little, in suitcases. A couple of old photo-albums, my grandmother’s tablecloths, Swedish board games to play with my son, an Orrefors crystal vase, my father’s christening gown (to use for my son). Though these are invaluable in some way, they don’t mean much in my daily life. But they are there, tucked away in a closet or on top of a shelf, presumably as reminders of who I really am and where I am from (in case I forget).

This brings to mind death, which inevitably happens to all of us. I used to look aghast at the cemeteries in Brooklyn that we’d pass by on our way to the beach in summer. It used to give me chills to see them; the headstones stacked so close to each other, the lack of serenity, the lack of personal space and thoughtful floral arrangements. And there we would sit, safe and alive in the air-conditioned subway car, in our shorts, flip-flops, and straw hats, clutching beach umbrellas, buckets, and bags with sunscreen. And those cemeteries would flash by.

“I don’t want to be buried there,” I used to say.

I used to think that I had to be buried in Sweden, that somehow someone would have to send my body back home. But I’m no longer so sure. I guess because I’m no longer so sure exactly where home is, or if it matters that much.

There are times I wish I had nothing; nothing but a white room somewhere with a white bed and a side table with books.

Knowing we were all safe, my husband, my son, and our cats, I might risk my life to save some of my books. I just might. I have some books that are irreplaceable; though pretty much worthless to any other person, to me they are irreplaceable.  These are books that I love, that I’ve read so many times their poor spines are broken and their pages have fallen out. Some have been glued or scotch-taped back in place. These books have been good friends throughout the years. I might want to save some of them. I wouldn’t rush in to save all the other beautiful things. Things are after all just things. The memory of a loved one needs no trinkets to be passed on. And for some of the other stuff, passports, papers and documents and notes with pin codes and passwords – well, I think I might actually like to watch that burn.