My purse is a liar. If opened by any stranger, it would confidently boast about my neatness, my organizational skills and, all in all, convey to the observer that I am one put together woman. At the moment, it would reveal a modestly small interior containing only the bare essentials: two books, Evolve Your Brain by Dr. Joe Dispenza and The Right to Write by Julia Cameron, with a ragged mint green Chinese take-out menu sticking out of the latter, a black Bic pen, a barely used tube of ChapStick, and a "secret" pocket containing my check card, credit card, and driver's license.
And that's it. Simple, neat, compact and completely free of unnecessary clutter.
The fact is, I don't own a wallet. And I hate to carry a purse. When out and about, I'm usually with Chris, and his wallet serves as my wallet. It holds my driver's license and credit card - on the rare occasions that I even bring those two items along on our outings. When I do leave the house on my own, I transfer those bits and pieces back to the pocket in my purse, toss in my current reading material, and hit the road.
So would the contents of my purse give someone an accurate picture of who I am? Absolutely not. I'm not, in reality, a neat person. (Granted, I'm no slob, but keeping a neat-as-a-pin house isn't my number one priority.) Am I organized? Not really. What about clutter? Well, you should see my desk. Enough said.
So what does it say about me? Well, I think it conveys the message that I don't like attachments. I strive to keep my life as simple as possible, forgoing dependency and other unnecessary items. I don't carry pictures of family members, and no sentimental objects travel with me from place to place.
And just what would that person not be able to deduce by rifling through my meager belongings? That I grew up in Iowa, but spent the last fourteen years living and working in places like Hawaii, South Dakota, Minnesota, and Washington. The items in my purse would in no way reveal that I love animals and adore zombie movies. My identity as a photographer would escape them, as my purse holds no reference to my business. And finally, this stranger would have no way of knowing that my aversion to attachments has to do with the fact that I've lost more loved ones over the past eighteen years than I care to count.
If misplaced, would I wish for a Good Samartan to box it up and send it back? Probably not. It doesn't, when it comes down to it, hold any emotional value for me. Except for the books. Yes, I'd most definitely want those back.
I guess, when all is said and done, I do have some attachments after all.
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"If a man empties his purse into his head, no man can take it away from him. An investment in knowledge always pays the best interest."
-- Benjamin Franklin
