Moving is hard for me. When I have mentioned this this today people think something is going wrong with the proceedings. Not at all. In fact things are going swimmingly – despite the family who’s moving out of our new abode being a weensy bit behind schedule. This is no big deal, at all. I will just have to wait one more night before my sweet new digs.
No, moving is hard for me even when the move is a joyful one. In the beginning stages, moving is a destructive process. The kitchen I’d tried so hard to keep clean pulled apart; leftover food thrown out, newspaper strewn on the floor, food taken off dusty or sticky shelves and crammed into a temporary cardboard home.
It also requires a lot of letting go. I can see why so many people drag huge amounts of things from place to place; why after living somewhere for years they will move again and admit they didn’t even unpack certain parcels they’d moved with before. Why let go of things? It hurts to do so. Better to forgo the process and accrue, accrue.
We dismantle the house and it feels like destroying memories. The tiny pieces of tile my kids (for some reason) hid under the corner of their bed? I have to throw them away. Pulling the stacks of fabric out of the sewing room is leaving behind the joyful memories of all the creations made there. The kids’ room: lights, blankets, and carefully-stocked shelves of folded clothes stripped bare, the room instead filled with echos.
Today Ralph and I each think the other has the harder job; he carrying, loading, and hauling (with the help of two friends). Me entertaining the kids and serving as a go-fer. I’ll be in full force during the cleaning / unpacking stage. This house that we’re currently cramming our things into will soon become our home; coffee brewing, music playing, the heat warming me as I ritualistically scrub the tub and listen to my children playing with their new Christmas toys.
But for now, we’re just pulling things apart and it feels kind of bad.