All That Little Stuff

As I sit here eating a bowl of cereal in an effort to put my feet up before actually preparing my dinner, I’m hit with a sense of something that smacks of realization. The smell of it has hints of fear and sadness, loneliness and excitement, the anxious feeling of anticipation counting down inside me. In seven days I throw my life into portable storage, all contained in plastic bins and cardboard boxes. My days are decided by the little choices of what to pack now? what to pack later? where to put it? what to label it? should I keep it? do I need it? do I want it? why do I want it? what am I going to do with it? when will I use it? will I use it? where should it go? should I take it with me? should I store it? and little else. Add to the mix my level of procrastination, distraction and reminiscing, and I tend to get lost in the actions instead of thinking about them, a cog that keeps turning, be it smoothly or in jerks. Until I get to this point, when it’s too quiet even with a loud air conditioner and music playing constantly, too quiet for even my introverted tendencies.

I’ve grown attached to this place, as surprising as I find that to be. There’s a me in this chaos of a living space, a spirit who finds comfort in having it all to myself, while chiding the state of the place or its location. It’s been good to me despite the many frustrations I’ve encountered while living here. I have no plans to see it again, and while I am generally quite happy about that, there is still something that makes me a bit melancholy about leaving it empty. I suppose I have grown comfortable in dealing with its quirks, as well as my own. Now that level of comfort is going to have to shift again on a scale it hasn’t seen for several years. It’s the anxious anticipation, the knowledge that while I am excited at the prospect of changing things up, I am very very fond of having my comforts with me. It could be having a blanket, a book (or several), my hoodies, my bed, or any number of things just hanging around in their given places. In a way, that is why I dislike packing and moving so much. It feels like a separation of lives somehow, the past and hopes of or for the future tossed in a box while I meander through where life has me going in the present. It’s an odd little revelation really. I suppose I’m still waiting to make a home to use as a base of operations for whatever traveling I may do in the future. When I travel, I don’t consider myself to be on a vacation, or a respite from the rest of my life. The respite comes when I return home to familiar things and I can sit in my favorite chair with a book I’ve been aching to read for ages. That sense of security is something I haven’t been able to reproduce for myself quite successfully yet.

The To-Do list is getting shorter as the days go by, and for that I am thankful. If all goes according to plan, I will be receiving my Flu, DPT and MMR shots next week, the boxes, bins and bags will be in a container by next weekend and I will be couch surfing by the 22 or 23. Calling to cancel utility services, making runs to GoodWill and donating whatever supplies I won’t be storing to my fellow MAT grads will all be happening in a number of days. Things are coming to a point more quickly than I realize, and I look at the bits and pieces of paper and notes all over my apartment and wonder what in the world I’m going to do with all that little stuff.