Moving. Need I say another word? Top of the list for stressors. Moving at this stage seems frivolous in so many ways. I have it “all” here: a place in community, friends of all description, walkers, foodies, familiar volunteer activities, close-ups of a tolerable reality. Yet something is missing from this situation which I am seeking out.
My cat has her own dreams of sameness. She likes her chair in a certain spot, the sun coming at a specific angle, having a variety of “venues” to perch upon. Now even the cinderblock wall she rushed to outside every morning is disassembled. She liked the higher perch. I moved the chair to that place, but the chair is for sitting on later in the morning, not first run at 3:30 a.m. So now she comes back indoors & sits at the front door before curling up on her office chair, palpably bored.
In this halfway place odd noises occur. An investigation shows a picture has slipped from its hook. I remember the last time relocating & how the pictures removed themselves like this. Now that I’ve packed the spare bulbs & given them away as fragile, my favorite lamp starts to flicker & two of its 3-way lumens are gone. A top I gave away to a rummage sale jumped up off the pile when I attended, so I brought it back home. My red shirt: really?
My mind is halfway to wherever too. I nibble at the idea of home being totally empty then waiting for the change to happen, the green light to depart to shine. I look at things & think, “I have to pack that.” But it’s something very tiny that I don’t want lost in the mush of prepping a yard sale.
I have met a boy-man who says he wants to spend time with me but more wants to stay at home & chill. I talk with the other men I know who are intent on wearing me down on my chauvinistic political views (which I do not bring up for discussion.) I give food to a friend who denies having my containers – not even a “Hey, let me go look” just a “No, I don’t have any of your stuff.” (I see myself dropping stuff off on his porch & believe you me, the food stew was not dropped from a ladle thereupon.) Another dances with proving a Trump son more evil than a Biden son, but I cannot equate money with harm & that seems to be the cutting edge making my heart bleed. Perhaps its time to pack up something small & fragile to occupy myself.
I pray a lot these days. I tap on Heaven’s windowpanes when the doorbell doesn’t work. I know help seems farther away cuz my Heaven is also repositioning itself in a comfy new spot.
I stop “looking local” in order to keep eyes to the horizon. I daydream about new vistas, about movie theatres with a real sound system, about being able to buy shoes & clothing without driving 75 miles. I dream of “different” – faces, places, spaces, bases. I think about the cat rushing to my new roommate & how happy we are to share her. I think of not having to deal with all the stuff I have now, but translating it into gas money to replace it elsewhere.