Attention: Mark this box of memories "fragile, handle with care"

By Lisa A. Eramo

Everyone knows the song from Rent, the musical, during which cast members sing about measuring a year in 525,600 minutes--in daylights, sunsets, midnights, cups of coffee, inches, miles, laughter, strife...you get the idea.

Okay, I like the song, but can we really measure a year in coffee? Perhaps Dunkin Donuts or Starbucks would like us to think so.

Ask yourself this question: What warrants a year or a life well-lived? I bet no two people would give you the exact same answer. I mean, I know people who would say that the bottom line of "the company" trumps everything else. Profit. Profit. Profit. I know people who strive to compose the perfect song. I know people who would go to the ends of the earth for a great picture. I know people who teach. I know people who have given their lives in war. I know people who help people. I know people who have left a legacy. Some might say that doing something to make the world a better place elevates one's status in the "life well-lived" category.

Breaking news: I haven't saved lives. I haven't saved a single life for that matter. I haven't helped to solve world hunger. And believe it or not, in my spare time, I have not managed to find a cure for cancer. Does that mean that my drama-filled and ever-interesting life isn't worthy of musicals, memoirs, and blockbuster motion pictures? Perhaps. But I'd like to think that it's at least worth a blog. And if the Rent cast can sing about coffee, I (or anyone else) can certainly write about the incessant stories that pervade every second of our existence.

Regardless of how you measure your year or your life, you don't really realize how much "life" you've lived until you begin to pack up your belongings in U-haul boxes to prepare for a move. Of course, you can't measure a life in boxes (or was that lyric left out of the popular Rent song???), but it does give you some sense of the strange collection of random bowls you've accumulated, the extensive pictures you've taken of your pets, the clothes that no longer fit you, the pennies you saved for a rainy day, the books that inspired you during the darkest of times.

The beauty of packing is that it's like being reunited with yourself after a long absence. I found the thesis I wrote as an undergrad. I found a tape I had recorded of myself singing and playing the piano at the age of 8 (yes, a true Grammy award-winning composition). I found newspaper clippings of articles I'd written during my journalism internships. I found the lesbian movie I watched when I was first coming out. I found the baseball glove I used as a kid to play catch with my dad. I found an old notebook from a high school Latin class that I took. I found wisdom teeth that I'd had removed in college. I found photo albums covered in dust that contained pictures of people I have loved and lost.

Packing up my life has been a bit therapeutic, particularly the process of deliberately looking at each item and then deciding whether to hold onto it or toss it. It's not just about the items. The items, themselves, signify a "version" of me...the "me" that existed a month ago, a year ago, five years ago...the "me" that existed fresh out of college when I took the ever-so-bold bold step of packing these all-too familiar boxes to prepare for my schlep from NY to MA. Now I pack them again to move to RI. There's something about allowing myself to release an item, a memory, or an emotion that makes me stronger in the end.

I measure my life in boxes. U-haul boxes. Boxes that are heavy, dirty, and worn from use.

And I've marked them "fragile" so that movers know to handle them with care.