About three months ago, my moving across the country to be closer to family became more than a topic of conversation. It became a reality; reality in that theoretical, I don’t want to think much about it, fact. March, for some reason, was picked, probably by me, to be the month to move. I probably picked it because it was very far away from December.
Moving closer to family was the categorical answer to why I was moving. That very few asked why I was moving or where I lived anyway was the real reason – a different topic for a separate post.
But please know, I put no one else but myself and my life in the crosshairs of my now very active, present, moving prep reality. Also, it was never a lie; I was moving toward those I love and those who loved me.
As with most, there is so much backstory to that statement; it could be designated a national treasure for all emotional archeologists to enjoy. But that is not the point of this particular piece either. This is about moving and its 3rd or 4th position on the agreed to list of the hardest things to do and approved by “THEY” or “THEM,” whose gig it is to create such lists.
Context is essential when attempting to express an emotional metric. My professional expertise and my personal passion fall smack into the home décor, space design, and nesting world. Finding a pillow, a carpet, and a blanket that play so beautifully together elevates my euphoria to the level it was on August 15th, 1991, at the Paul Simon Concert in Central Park.
I can testify through modern medical studies of my brain that I am as far from linear as you can. My brain does not do rote. And those who are linear survive the beast of the move best.
Apparently, a part of the human brain understands visual context far more than previously thought and yet cannot be aligned with a great architectural designer’s gift.
Moving + the brain = confusion.
February 24th, 2023, will mark my 2nd transcontinental, 2nd coastal, and 3rd interstate move in 5 and half years, yet moving is anathema to millions of other humans and me. For whatever reason, it is a multi-cultural, cross-gender, income-straddling mud-slugging experience.
And for those who like to move, I cast no aspersions; you probably feel as misunderstood as those who do not care to eat spaghetti.
Moving is the dismantling of your life, slicing through the layers laid down. This layered delicacy is your place, your space, your pattern of living, and the familiar light, with the sights, sounds, and scents of home. It is memory and texture and future and past forming Home.
Home is space, more often the place that stores unique memories, both good and not, relevant to you and yours only. Moving is between a Russian smashing a glass down with shards flying up and an arthritic seamstress picking apart threads that make a seam to render a garment or pillow back into fabric.
See if you can imagine a robin or bluebird in spring taking down from the corner of a porch the tireless work put into that perfect niche, removing all of the gathered twigs and down, outdoor dust bunnies, and seedling bits. With their beak, they toss hither and yon where the eggs would lay.
Yes, if they don’t want the nest, they will probably leave it, but it only demonstrates the perspicacity of birds and the concept of how ugly it is to dismantle one’s home. Bird brains rain supreme in the moving world.
I am in week 2.5 of what I consider the month of the move. Yes, I am aware it is not March. I have photographed all items to be sold online, found a new place to live and lost It, found another place to live, actually two, and sat still, with bated breath for the ruling to come on “You’ve won a home; a place to lay your head,” and I am not buying. That is another story.
I have movers in place, packing help lined up, have flight across a country secured, a hotel to stay in the night before, a buyer for the car, and a new car on the other side. I should be in giggles of glee.
Selling online these days came with bouts of fraud, scams, and outright theft. Apartment hunting is not close to enjoyable because there are a limited number of blinds from which I could stalk my prey of an affordable two-bedroom with in-unit laundry, and the permit to go after what I want is bloody expensive.
The third credit card kept for emergencies such as freezing and closing my other two accounts is now camouflaged, hidden within the massive pattern of stuff, boxes, tape, and the fallen heroes of paintings and art; and where the heck is my phone now?
Last evening, I soothed myself as I sat with a cool glass of wine and leftovers heating in the microwave with the sure and faithful knowledge that comes from age and experience: this too shall pass. A new space that will hold me and mine with warmth and beauty. Everything that is like freshly baked bread will happen. But I know it is itching at the back of my brain; I forgot something significant.
I realized when I woke up this morning what it was I forgot.
I forgot what the linear brain does without firing a second neuron. Put on the packing list, pick up every day, pull it out from the back of the closet, and take out all the hidden places it lives… Patience! Boxes and van loads of patience.
And to have fun imagining the new life that is about to start.
Do you dread moving, relocating, packing stuff, selling, repurchasing new things, and all the other activities related to changing your home? What do you find is the hardest part of moving?
Tags Downsizing Your Life