moving

I hate moving.

I don't mean moving my body (although... exercise hasn't exactly been my thing as of late either), I mean the act of moving from one home to the next. Packing, sorting, carrying, cleaning, unpacking, reorganizing.... the whole experience is one I find miserable.

In a way, it should feel good. I inevitably toss a lot when I move. I find myself distinctly unsentimental when faced with the prospect of having to carry a box of stuff that sure, might be nice to hang on to.... if only I didn't have to lug it around. But tossing stuff and lightening the load is therapeutic-almost zen- in away, even if you're mostly doing it for non-zen reasons. NAMASTE, BITCHES.

This particular move, though, is especially tough for a number a reasons.

I said when we moved here that I wanted to come out of this house for the last time in a coffin. I didn't ever want to have to pack, sort, carry, clean, unpack etc etc ever again. I wanted to die of old age in this place and be done with the moving process.

I love it here. Over the past 17 months this has become my safe space. The spot where I hide when things are too much. The comfortable place where I can be myself and leave my socks on the floor near the couch. Where I have my own bathroom where I can tink and then not flush the toilet if I don't feel like it.

It was a mile stone. After years of being together and renting or living with family, we finally got a place. We did it all ourselves. After struggling and saving and searching and almost and maybe and then finally. The perfect little place. Craft room. Record room. Dog pictures everywhere. Video game systems galore and plants to tend to. All our things under our own roof. But in this divorce, in this resolution of marriage, even my safe space is going away.

Honestly it's felt less safe with him gone. Empty and quiet and like I'm somehow an intruder. Like I'm just house sitting until the owners get back. Except the people coming here aren't coming back, they're coming for the first time. This might be their first home, or a downsize, or an upgrade- who knows. The point is, it already doesn't feel like mine.

But as hard as packing, sorting blah blah blah is- it also means a new beginning. This wasn't a beginning I was planning, it's not even a beginning I want (because the end it comes after is my worst nightmare), and beginnings are scary. The first steps into the unknown. Still... newness and beginnings as hard as they are can also be the start of wonderful things. Friendships or opportunities or adventure. And sure, my idea of adventure may not be as exciting as someone else's, and maybe I need to insulate my adventure with a night of watching Doctor Who or knitting... just something familiar and quiet and routine.... but adventure nonetheless.

I will be brave this year, and hopefully the next and the next and the next. I will bravely face my fears and demons, bravely own my faults and shortcomings, bravely strive for greatness, admit weakness and ask for help. Somewhere out there, there is peace and happiness for me. I will need to be brave to find it.

To quote from Doctor Who: "Let me be brave."


Even little Dash is ready to face the big, big world.

Forward.