Unpacking Life

I have this gut feeling that there have already been plenty of insightful and metaphor-laden blog posts written about moving.  I should go read one.  This certainly isn't one.  This is just a method of processing shock.

I'm looking at a trailer full of everything I own and thinking, "This is me, in boxes."  It's my clothes and my books and all the supplies for all the hobbies I collect.  It's a musical instrument, and a few pieces of furniture, and towels, and pens, and a trash bag full of hangers.

I've moved before ― a lot, even.  But never just me.  I've never looked at an otherwise full house and noticed the empty spaces left behind, like a negative portrait of myself.  Never said good-bye, see you later to my Everyday People.

I don't think it matters when you do it, or what your home was like.  I'm a late-bloomer, I know ― I stayed longer than most.  I love my family fiercely, and I know that's not a given either.  Maybe when you left, you were 18 and couldn't wait to be gone.  But I'll bet, even then, you felt this same tug in your gut.  Good-bye, known quantity; hello, crazy everything.

The surrealism of it all makes a good buffer.  There's no knowing when the new reality will truly sink in; it hasn't for me. 

And now I skip ahead to the packing in reverse: when the boxes open, and everything comes out to fill a new space.  This is the fun part, where I realize a surprising amount of 'home' is sandwiched between familiar book covers and folded in sheets. 

I absolutely love my room.  My sister and brother-in-law, Chloe and Dan, are providing my initial housing: a basement bedroom.  It's only supposed to be until I find work and a place of my own, but they've gone out of their way to make it home for me.  It's freshly painted in a dusky lavender that looks pink in lamplight.  I've always shared bedrooms before, but this one is all mine, and I hang the pictures where I choose.   The finished product is cluttered, and warm, and me.  It is, in my favorite Danish word: hygge.

The beautiful thing about a move is that it doesn't just uproot, it replants.  In the process, it lets you sort through your life thus far.  You consider each posession.  Do I want to keep this thing badly enough to tape it into an old Hylunia box and haul it 500 miles?  No? then here we part ways.  Yes? then it must truly be worth having.  I appreciate everything afresh in this new environment.  I have art painted by my best friend, photos of my favorite people, sarcastic British literature, the sewing machine I've had since I was thirteen, the doll I've had since I was six.

My freshly unpacked things gleam with purpose, and they inspire inward spring cleaning.  What dreams have travelled with me?  Which of my old habits are worth keeping?  What does God have next?  Here is my chance to be new, try things on, and find fresh purpose.  What a fantastically breath-taking notion!

For all the internal shocks and jammed fingers and aching knees,

moves have their advantages. 

I could even see them becoming addicting.

"Life is either a
daring adventure
or nothing."

Helen Keller