There’s nothing quite so unsettling as a major move.
Plagued by timing unpredictability. On guard for daily disturbance.
We’re supposed to be adept at managing the sketchy, difficult stuff life throws at us, yes? Seasoned as we’ve been by heartache, isn’t that right?
To a point.
If ever I needed reminding that rational thinking and planning only gets us so far, this past chaotic year — consumed by change and at the mercy of the market — did the job.
Once again I learned that to-do lists are often nothing more than our fragile attempts to bring order to the disorder we find ourselves inhabiting.
Home is the place we’re supposed to feel at peace. But what happens when your home is no longer under your control? Somewhere on the horizon is a move date, but it’s elusive and can continue to push just out of reach. Amid the wait, there’s nothing we can do but steep in the unrest. Permit discomfort to wash over us. Summon our energy to simply be.
Flashes of insecurity and powerlessness gripped me repeatedly in the 10 months it took to sell our California house. During our sometimes frenetic de-contenting efforts we’d body slam into a flood of remembrances. Stuffed into the hidden recesses of closets, drawers and cabinets lay keepsakes and snippets of our 16 years of family-focused hopes and dreams.
Memories Stripped Away
Embedded in the walls now denuded of personal pictures are tears, whispers and sighs — the ghosts of who we once were, the family we tried to build. Under the eves and hidden amid the backyard garden live remnants of a once tempestuous reckoning. The kitchen table where I tentatively began my Coming2Terms blog went to the consignment store. It now resides in some mystery persons’s residence, radiating still, one hopes, the vital energy that birthed Silent Sorority.
Through it all, your cards and words of encouragement surfaced and resurfaced. In the slow unraveling of the recent past and the long goodbye we came face to face repeatedly with what might have been. We buried, once more in boxes, the mementos too precious to go into a trash or recycle bin.
Now in northern Nevada surrounded by cardboard boxes we live in a construction zone. We awake each morning to noises from nail guns and saws. The cacophony signals a new beginning, the next string of decisions and a new set of dreams.
Amid our move and home-related turmoil some new and remarkable women came into my life. More on those encounters in upcoming posts. On the Move – to be continued.