B.M. part two

So, here’s what I’ve learned about moving when you’re not so young anymore: it’s hellishly purgatorial for longer than you think it will be. And we only moved about a mile away from our last home. Seven months after the moving trucks left, I’m not so much unpacking boxes as still hanging family pictures, finding the occasional unopened box of stuffed toys, kindergarten art projects, and children’s games. Is this all because I’m a slacker, a packrat, and innately unorganized? I wish that was the case. I shudder to think how the 25-year-old me, or even the 35-year-old me, would have handled the “big move” (henceforth the “B.M.”). Yes, I’m still all of those things. But I am an organizational rock star compared to where I was in my earlier years! It’s true that the seven habits of highly effective people don’t come naturally to me (I couldn’t even finish the book). I just had no idea how big a deal moving was when you have young kids, occasional babysitting rather than full-on “help,” and a lingering desire not to be morbidly overweight. There’s only so much unpacking/organizing, followed by driving kids to and from school, etc, that I can take before I need a good, long run outdoors or a visit to the gym. So my last seven months have been among my most physically fit ever, but I still can’t find some of my clothes.

I should clarify that I haven’t just been unpacking, but rather trying to finally become that organized, zen person, free of excess possessions that I always wanted to be. It’s laughable, but nevertheless I hold on to the hope. So, for every one of the hundreds of boxes I unpacked, I tried to really rid myself of unnecessary detritus masquerading as useful stuff. For a long time this fall and winter, my hands were in a constant state of dryness and injury brought on by touching and being cut by cardboard boxes. There were many weeks where I made two to three trips to Goodwill, dropping off housewares, clothes, books — anything but toys, which are no longer accepted at Goodwill (or most other charitable organizations). And this was after our two pre-move yard sales. On a good day, when I accepted the fact that there would be either no walk or no shower, with only coffee and bits of yogurt, crackers (or whatever was in grabbing distance) as sustenance, I would imagine that I was in a folk tale about a person who learned a hard lesson or gained a great reward through tedious and neverending work. (I was listening to a lot of fairy tales on tape in the car, with all of the kid-schlepping I was doing.) This fantasy didn’t make the drudgery any easier, but it was my best effort at being mindful while performing a mindless task. And I tried to imagine myself as that zen, directed person, who didn’t confuse objects with emotions and memories.

In the midst of all this, three days before Christmas, one of my dogs died after a number of illnesses. For two years, we had been treating her for glaucoma and skin problems, and then, all of a sudden, she developed lymphoma. At stage four when it was discovered, she died within two months of her diagnosis. The dog’s sickness and death hit me hard. She was the most spirited animal that my husband or I had known, and she was only six years old. I have noticed that older people I’ve known tend to identify strongly with their dogs, the dog’s mortality foreshadowing their own decline. But for me it was more like the death of a child, the beloved third child I didn’t quite have time for but wanted just the same. And I always imagined that once we were ensconced in our new house, I’d be able to spend more time with her and my other dog. They would be my companions as I fell into the pseudo-professorial life as a writer working from home. Losing her reminded me of the loss and regret I had felt when my father died — the stinging awareness that it’s really too late to rewrite the relationship and make it better.

The worst part about moving in is that you have to go on living your regular life – with all of the ordinary family responsibilities and housewifery, and the half-hearted attempts to continue to finish your writing projects – and simultaneously take a good, hard look at all that crap (physical and metaphorical) that you amassed over the last decade or more. At least that’s been my experience. I wasn’t without help. We had professional movers who also packed our things for us. But I have noticed that I really don’t buy as much junk as I used to, and I don’t even take much pleasure in considering the crap I could buy (through window-shopping, online-obsessing, etc). I’m better at getting rid of paper quickly than ever before. And although I still fetishize the ideal zen-state of uncluttered countertops and desks, I think people who actually live like that are über-uptight and unlikely to be close friends of mine. I’d like to think that the pain of staying the same has finally outweighed the pain of change. Here’s to hoping I can walk the walk of an organized person a little longer — at least until I finish cleaning out the goddamned garage.