Ruby Slippers

School was always home. From the first week, every time I went back to my parents' house, that's what I was doing: going to their house, not mine. Likewise, going back to school meant going home. The transfer was complete from one place to another; the location of my heart had altered. Yesterday I drove away for the last time, and I could immediately feel the removal of my heart from the empty dormitories. With everyone I loved gone, there was nothing to stay for. As much as our beautiful memories haunted me up and down the halls, especially when I accidentally opened the now-desolate rooms, there was nothing left for me anymore.

So, my epiphany that followed is as follows. If my home is truly where my heart is, and it's the people that make the home, not the house, then what is our great preoccupation with houses? When did we decide that the degree of our happiness is determined by things? I can say without reservation that one of the happiest years of my life has been spent in a tiny, cramped room with a barely-working shower and hardly any material "things" to speak of, but my heart was full. When did these things begin to choose the condition of our hearts?

I'm getting rid of a lot of things in my life. It's hard when they have nostalgic implications, but I'm letting go because that is not what my life revolves around. Just as life goes on when people leave, whether for now or forever, so does life when the economy crumbles or our cars get totaled (twice) or all our memories are burned to the ground because the stove was left on. So with that attitude, I'm letting go of the unnecessary and embracing what truly matters.