I am stuck for another two weeks in this in-between world where I don’t really belong to this wonderful apartment and neighbourhood that I’ve called home for the past 23 years nor can I claim ownership of my new one that is still occupied by the people who have called it home for not-quite-so-many years. I can’t even really get excited about discovering a new neighbourhood and trying to find new friends there because I’m not there — although knowing there’s a creme brûlée cafe down the street does tickle my interest to be sure.
It’s hard not to “belong” anywhere. Yesterday, my neighbour had a little gathering at her place as a good-bye-to-Annie. I wanted to tell her that it was too early. But that would have been ungracious and I am trying to leave here with all my bridges still standing. But, as I sat there drinking very delicious, perfectly-chilled, Vinho Verde, I started to feel that loneliness of not belonging here, there or anywhere. My friend, Merrill, must have sensed that all was not well because when she got home, she wrote: “There will be no good byes. This is not goodbye.” I so needed to hear someone say those words.
Then, besides all the emotional upheavals, I’m sitting in the middle of C-H-A-O-S! I’m not a particularly neat-freak kind of person but I do like a certain order to my life and,
especially, to my home. But, now, this home that isn’t my home much longer, is a jumble of half-filled, all-filled and, soon-to-be-filled boxes. I have been ruthless about getting rid of stuff — clothes, books, papers, knickknacks, dishes, even cat toys — but still there’s stuff to pack. (The cats, understandably, have been very nervous about whether they would be added to the Get-Rid of Pile.) I’m sure there’s more that could go but I have passed the disposal phase and am now into packing mode.
But, here’s the rub, I’m still here for another two weeks so I don’t want to pack everything away. I still have to cook and eat and write blogs and go swimming and feed cats. And I don’t want the last week to arrive with everything done and me sitting around with all the boxes and nothing to do until the 9th when Tom Trucker — real name — comes to put everything in his little truck and carry it north. It would be a reminder of all those moves with R. He always wanted everything tied up and packed away a good 24 hours before departure. I, on the other hand, didn’t want the empty hours of sitting around on suitcases waiting until it was time to catch a train or bus or boat. Needless to say, I never won that argument with him, but I certainly can with myself. .
It won’t take me long to finish up — especially with the amazing, sweet Steven helping me. We’ll have everything wrapped and marked and stacked up ready to go in no time. Maybe the key to this whole move is to spend as much time on me as on the stuff. Why not, eh? I could wrap and mark and box up my emotional self to get ready to move so I can arrive at my new home with a joyful anticipation for what is to come.