Moving is such a watershed event that it is hard not to time the rest of your life around it. Before we move, I must do this…after we move, I must do that. It seeps under every door, touching each area of your life.
We are still not done packing (an activity that has taken, oh, about the last three months) and when husband and I were filling a few more boxes the other night I told him that I was tired of ending things and ready to start beginning them. It was one of those comments that comes out lightly, and then after you say it you realize that it’s not light at all. I feel as though so many of the things I have done in the last few months have been part of a huge cycle of ending that won’t stop until we leave the driveway next Tuesday morning. And I’m kind of sick of it. I want to see a friend and know that I’ll talk to them again next week, to go to the store and know that this item can sit on a shelf and not in a box. I want to start something, not finish it.
This is not to say that I’m not excited about the possibility of beginning over. In fact, it seems like a gift, a opportunity that is not given to every person. I’m even going to change my reflection in the mirror: my long hair has an appointment with a stylist tomorrow and will (hopefully) look quite different afterward. No, I think I’m just impatient. I want to be gone now. I don’t want to have to finish these projects at work, pack those boxes at home, say goodbye to everyone one by one and cry a little with every hug, wondering when I will see that face again. I want to be on the road, with nothing to do that day but get 500 miles closer to Florida. No emails, no paperwork, no cardboard boxes.
But I must have patience. The end is almost in sight. And then the beginnings can start.