40cm by 20cm by 25cm is all it takes. A cube that’s a bit bigger than an A4 page but not as deep as a drawer. Inside, a mass of tightly rolled t-shirts, sandals wrapped in a carrier bag, carefully counted socks, creams and lotions decanted into tiny matching bottles and two books – one for reading, one for writing in. The makings of a good trip.
With the weather app open on the floor for reference, I wedge dresses and swimwear in, then out, then in again until settling on my lot. Umbria in mid-October could mean sunshine or it could mean showers so I packed to brief: I have layers, insect repellent and a raincoat. Â
Size constraints mean decisiveness. I’d live without changing for dinner each evening and I’d commit to reading the one book I’d pressed into the front pouch. I could manage without perfume, but not without sun cream. Laptop in, polaroid out. Â
The act of packing stuff feels weightier than usual. Sorting and transporting my things is feeding this rootless feeling that’s appeared since moving out of my home in the summer. The ambiguity of not knowing where I’ll be living next, or when that will be, clouds what would otherwise be easy decisions on what to take where and when.
It has resulted in a frantic gathering of things, thrown inside three large IKEA bags which get taken place to place in the back of my car. Those shiny bright blue IKEA bags with thick, scratchy handles always a sign of upheaval.
Having entrusted these vast canvas bags with my belongings moving between six - soon to be seven - different house shares, I can still feel the sting of the red indentations they leave on my hand. Sturdy and durable, they’re always lurking at the back of the cupboard waiting to be unfolded for when I inevitably move again.
Full to the brim with a mixture of books I may need, outdoorsy stuff and non-essential electrical items, their disorder a reflection of the way I’m currently living.
So I relished the simplicity of filling this cabin baggage, 40cm x 20cm x 25cm. There’s a list for me to follow, and there’s a plan.
Neat and uncomplicated with sweet mesh pockets designed for chargers, tailored to store shoes and stitched on to hold documents in an accessible place, I mindfully and purposefully place each item in the snug-fitting pouch that’s been made for it.
A beacon of order and sense among the chaos. It’s compact but it will facilitate so much: new companions, a first writing retreat, being away, a rest.
Putting things in containers to be moved is a simple enough task but my feelings towards it are so dependent on what’s going inside, where it’s going and why.
If the act of packing I’ve got used to recently has been about dismantling a life, this kind was about restoring one.