Moving

The best way I can describe where my family and I are now is this: that we are in a holding pattern. We've made an initial move. We've left the apartment and moved into a friend's recently vacated home. But this is a temporary arrangement so other than the daily essentials, we've chosen to keep most of our things in boxes. The only tedious part of this is that we still have things in the apartment that have to be hauled over.

I'm no stranger to moving. I grew up in a semi-nomadic home. My mom had us moving when she felt it was time. And when it wasn't quite time yet, she'd move furniture around. But this is the first time I'm moving piece-meal, so to speak. This bit-by-bit migration is something I have yet to get used to.

The one thing good about moving is that you unearth all sorts of things that you know you had but couldn't quite get yourself to look for. On the other hand, it also brings back memories of lifetimes past that make you feel like an ass (and I don't mean the bad 80's hair and fashion). Then there are the letters you swore you burned or shredded and the odd thing is that now that I'm older, I actually find myself wondering why I held on to them. Perhaps the one treasure I found among those old love letters is a poem about the Christmas tree we were decorating at the time. The person who wrote it was a brilliant writer. Last I saw him, he was working for an advertiing firm. I saved the poem from the shredder.

And speaking of shredders, mine has been working overtime since the packing started. I've also tried to be more organized about the packing. This time,other than labeling the boxes, I actually have a little notebook where I list the box number and general contents. If we're going to be living out of boxes, I might as well know which box has what because ultimately, I'm the one everyone will ask. I know I can be a bit obsessive-compulsive when it comes to organizing but at times like these, it does come in handy.

I look forward to the day when I can hang a frame on the wall of my choice because it's my wall, when I can put the treasured doodads of my life in their own special places, when I can paint a wall with murals that my family and I can enjoy, and where, when I come home, I can really say I'm home.

It's not long in coming. I know this holding pattern will be over soon. Meanwhile, I'm giving in to my OC tendencies and sorting and labeling in between projects. If anything, I am now an expert at assembling and folding boxes. . .