I love to pack. I have said it over and over. Somehow I was blessed with almost superhuman spacial reasoning skills when it comes to putting crap in boxes. The idea of moving gets the adrenaline running and I could pack for hours.
Until now, that is. Yesterday was the day to conquer the living room and most of the kitchen and organize my crap in the basement. That went well, besides it being about 100 degrees in my house. I started packing for real today in my room. I felt it building as I moved from one area to the next, putting my personal belongings into boxes and sealing them up. When I got to the picture frames, I almost lost it. And then, when I found the envelope full of pictures of my old dog, Lady, I couldn't take it anymore. I just laid down, behind my bed and had a freak out fest.
Why am I doing this? What am I even doing anyway? I don't know what I am packing FOR! Where am I going? What will I need there? The things that I will miss most are things that I cannot pack into boxes or my suitcase to take with me. Those things are my family, my friends, the terrace, the farmers market, fireflies, Trinity, Amanda, Barriques, Hoofers. My memories will travel with me, but I am not sure how to make them companions who don't just remind me of what I don't have, but what I should be happy to have experienced.
There is something terribly unnerving to take all of the comforting things off of my walls. Living in a bare-walled room makes me feel very unsafe, vulnerable and out of place in general. When I was putting each picture frame away today, I tried not to look at the picture inside. I knew that I would freak out, but I couldn't help myself. It feels almost like putting that PERSON away, like I was saying goodbye to this moment or that person. I was putting my life away, in storage, on hold. I know this is what I am doing. It's a very lonely feeling. Probably the loneliest I have ever felt.