It was not a planned move. It came fraught with emotion, disruption of the flow of life, and the divestiture of many belongings. It was therapeutic and traumatic, good and bad, and came at the same time I managed to badly tear the rotator cuff in my left shoulder putting a lightweight lawn chair into my car.
When the tear happened, I heard what sounded like someone tearing a chicken leg off a carcass. If felt that way, too. Generally, it was pretty unpleasant.
I saw stars, wanted to pass out, felt like throwing up, discovered new limitations, made new adaptations, and had to move forward despite the pain. It was, on a whole, a fairly apt metaphor for the entire process of rearranging my life in a new space.
In the midst of the chaos, I was blessed with the help of friends and family, some of whom traveled great distances to assist in the move. I am very fortunate, and I know it.
A new neighbor is moving in downstairs from me today - a 19-year-old guy with mom and dad footing the bill (they are discussing many matters on the balcony, hence I have learned this). We'll see how sound travels up from below.
The kitchen in my new place is open, so I've lost a wall and loads of storage space, but I've been creative about finding a place for everything, including a plastic shoe rack on the back of the kitchen door for all my cooking doodads. Ingenious, no?
It's hotter up here. The little balcony has no shade, and the heat seeps in through the windows and doors. When I lost power in a storm a week ago, the temperature climbed to 95 in short order. But I have fans. Everywhere. Towers, room air circulators, you name it.They do their job, and generally I don't mind the higher heat that much, until I've climbed the three stories up from the laundry room. Then, I'm a giant sweatball, more than willing to stick my head in the freezer (which has an icemaker, for the record—a first world thing of beauty).
But one of the tradeoffs for the temperature is that visitors swing by the plants outside my window, including this little guy below who just zipped by right now for a quick nip at the plants.
Side note: I just realized my new downstairs neighbor was born the year I moved into the old apartment. Holy crap. To quote They Might Be Giants, "You're older than you've ever been, and now you're even older..."
Suddenly, I need a very strong Irish coffee. Where's my Jameson's?
In the big picture, this move is good and I will get my head wrapped around everything at some point. Just don't ask me where my iron is. I have no idea. I've put some things away that had adorned my walls for almost two decades, rediscovered things long forgotten on back shelves, and embraced styles and elements that I've loved since I was a kid. Life is short and uncertain, I have come to acknowledge. Hang the art you like.
|My Gibson Girl debutante is watching over my shoulder as I type.|
I'm not the only person I know experiencing change. Some of my friends are undergoing truly major transitions right now. Jobs, relationships, births, deaths... some I know, including a couple I love more than life itself, are looking at very high walls, heartache, and new paths, and I need to find ways to be helpful to them without being a pain in the ass. While I've never been a mother (although some might say I *am* a "real mutha" when they cross me), the mothering gene is there, and I feel it in my gut and heart when friends are suffering or lost. I want nothing more than to hold them in a fear-crushing hug and tell them all again and again that things will be okay.
Things will be all right. It all takes time.
Truth is, every single time I think this or write this or say this, it's not just for my friends. It's for me, too. Things will be all right.
Sometimes I feel like the clock that measures the whole of our lives doesn't just turn on a dial, but starts to spiral and spin out of control. We need to reach out and still the hands and reset the clock. And in that moment, that quiet moment, consider where we want to go when the hands turn again.
Right now, I'm trying to stop my clockwise spiral for a brief moment and decide what I need to do, what I want to do, before setting things in motion again. And if you need to do that, too, then go ahead. Still your hands for a second. The world can wait for you.