creating an archival life

what a tiny suitcase taught me about playing small

In the summer of 2023 I travelled to Europe for six weeks with only a carry on suitcase.

I like to think I am someone who (mostly) lives without regret, but that tiny suitcase comes very close to the top of my list of things I probably should not have done.

The ability to live without regret is a gift, I believe, that comes along with being a writer (others include a tendency toward both nostalgia and fantasy, as well as neck and shoulder pain).

It was Anis Nin who said:

“We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.”

Like so many women who write, who have always written even if they were unsure if they were allowed, or good enough to do so, I read those words and nod deeply, make sounds similar to that first morning stretch in bed. (And then for the 100th time, I melt over her home).

The tiny suitcase is not the point of this story but also it is.

One of the great benefits of being a writer is that you can see the story in things, even when they hurt. One of the great benefits of being a writer is that sometimes, in writing about the thing, you extract the lesson from it and, if you so choose, you can grow.

It’s a fine balance though.

When people say doing it for the plot a very sensible part of me clenches. The way I interpret those words is: I know I shouldn’t do this because it is a very unhealthy pattern and I already know the result is going to be one I will have to recover from. Life is too short to throw yourself into the fire, willingly, knowing you (and your self esteem) will be burned.

And yet, many of the greatest experiences in my life have been the result of releasing the tension of sensibility, of stepping aside from the yearly report card branding: always a pleasure to have in class and doing the thing that is risky, incoherent, audacious - the thing that simply doesn’t make sense.

There’s a difference though, a big one, between doing it for the plot and careful risk taking, the making of tiny steps toward some greater dream, even (and especially) if you don’t yet know exactly what that dream is.

It’s important to remember Life will always come up with a story that is better than one we can reverse engineer.

To write, you must live and let the mistakes come unexpectedly.

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Anyway, I regretted the tiny carry on.

I toted that too small a thing from london to lisbon, to the south of france and mallorca and copenhagen, then to paris where, thankfully, I was staying with my friend who despite being younger than me (when we met thirteen years ago our four year gap seemed a chasm even though now it’s hardly worth mentioning) has much better sense (in bringing the appropriate suitcase) and much better taste (in everything, but especially clothes).

Despite the fact she is also at least a head shorter than me, I raided that suitcase like a dog hearing the sound of dinner tipping into the bowl, then trotted around Paris in jeans that hardly even grazed my ankles, loving every moment.

Despite the suitcase being a mistake, like all good mistakes it taught me a few things about myself:

1. I simply and absolutely adore a souvenir. I know it is not fashionable or cool to like stuff, and the word souvenir is usually said with an eye roll, but my heart breaks a little when I am unable to bring at least a taste of the place I travelled back home. My favourite souvenirs are coffee beans, incense and tea leaves, body lotions or oils and small items for the home. I was upset, unable to purchase olive oil or a straw bag from Mallorca, a paperback from a bookshop in France, lest the weight of my luggage deem it contraband. I did manage a tiny hand lotion and two bags of loose leaf tea from Lisbon (a jasmine scented oolong and a smoky, black vanilla I boiled on the stove with soymilk and have thought about ever since).
   

2. The clothes I wear genuinely dictate how I feel. If I do not have the right outfit for the day or the place, I feel as if all my parts are put on back to front and wrong. The five year old version of myself knew this: my parents like to laugh retelling the story of me crying at the wrong colour school backpack, or wanting to wear a specific pair of underwear with my favourite dress. How intelligent that small version of me was, knowing the impact that outer layer had on my mood, and how mean my adult self can be, telling her to just get over it for no reason other than what? I’m still not entirely sure.

Is it a stretch to connect that tiny suitcase with a long held inability to take up space? If a small (but not too small) collection of beautiful things will increase the enjoyment of the experience, why not bring them along?

In what cases is contraction a form of self-harm?

When the voice remains unheard, what do we cut ourselves off from?

photo by my dear, long suffering friend, shirley cai

That (long suffering, deeply generous) friend of mine and I spent around ten days in total traipsing around the south of France and Paris.

In almost complete opposition to me, her large suitcase was overflowing with what felt like freedom and possibility. Not only clothes, and more than a single pair of shoes, but books, journals, skincare and multiple analogue cameras she carried around in a tote bag each day. All things women are told are frivolous, but make us happy anyway.

A reminder: the leap between dogmatic minimalism and rabid overconsumption is so much bigger than most of us think. You are not superficial or contributing to the decline of the planet because of your desire to collect beautiful things, to carry them around like amulets.

In France, we spent our days drinking coffee and fresh orange juice and eating too much bread, even though I once believed such a thing could never be true. My friend stopped me multiple times a day to take photos on her film camera. The words you must remember this became the phrase of our time together, her plea for making me stand still and lean further into the discomfort of having my photo taken. A discomfort I am now, of course, very grateful for (if only I could have wiped the obvious-ness of it off my face back then).

We talked about the book we self-published almost ten years earlier, wondering if our next should consist of handwritten letters sent between our new homes, Tokyo and New York. We talked about becoming archivists of our lives. Writing everything down. Collecting cardboard boxes of photos, stored outside of the phone. This was just before the analogue boom took off. Before everyone watched Perfect Days and felt something. Before the surge in popularity of journals and cassette tapes, stickers and fountain pens. Before talking heads on reels popped up and said analogue is just a performance (what isn’t, but anyway), that failing to embrace AI will ensure you are left behind.

I just don’t know about that.

It was after this trip, I began the transition to working by hand more frequently and carrying a notebook in my purse almost all of the time, especially when alone. While of course and obviously I still type on a laptop keyboard and rely on google calendar, while I run a digital studio and post my articles on substack and not in a printed newspaper, I have transitioned the bulk of preparation of my work offline. My job requires a substantial, daily output of creative ideas (and the energy to make them real). Newsletters and articles, trainings and courses, yoga classes, workshops and retreats.

In my experience, I’ve only seen growth and ease in keeping as much of this process as offline, as messy and bulky and inefficient as possible.

In a world in which any and all information is available at a single click, I would be more terrified of losing the ability to have a unique, nuanced thought. More terrified of losing the art of reflection. Of quiet, empty space. Of true creativity. Of a strong, flexible mind. Of that information filtered through a unique and human lens and all its life experiences. Of spending too many precious hours of my life looking into a phone, at things I never even wanted or needed to know.

What is more valuable than a personal story, unique perspective?

What is more valuable than a mind that is actually your own?

I never knew how thrilled I would be, drinking in the typos and grammatical errors of my favourite online writers. How it made me love them even more.

In many (most) cases the pursuit of efficiency and productivity is desperately ugly and leaves us longing.

It is the difference between a pre-determined workout schedule in a brightly lit gym wearing body conturing plastic leggings, and working out at home, braless by candlelight, moving in unison with a room full of people in a dance class or yoga studio, walking outside at sunset, swimming in a natural body of water, learning how work with your body, rather than against it.

It is the difference between measuring grams of protein and eating a variety of foods that are mostly whole, prepared with care, alongside your favourite people.

Not everyone will agree with me, because we all have different preferences, but doesn’t one scream joy and vitality far louder than the other?

The same is felt in your work, in your home, in the way we travel.

The printed books and the hand scribbled notes scattered all over the floor that become something only you could have written. It’s the texture of a film photo vs one on your phone. It’s a ceramic bowl from the first trip you took with a loved one. It’s a single piece of fabric made by someone who desires to live off their art, one you’ve so far used as a scarf, a skirt, a sleeping mask. Sure, souvenirs might be seen as uncool, but wouldn’t you rather pay the person in a brick and mortar store or a market than another disembodied psycho for more cloud storage?

It might be a stretch, but I see the tiny suitcase as part of the same urge to be hyper-efficient, to be good, to be streamlined and need-less.

A life that is rich and nourishing, a life that feeds satisfaction, inspires stories and poems, a life that has the spirit still alive within it, is one that is mostly, bulky and inefficient.

A life alive with experiences and relationships is one that is very often inconvenient.

Mary Oliver says that she wrote her poems by hand, on paper while walking.

I’m quite sure anyone familiar with her work would agree, you can feel it.

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