I am trying to stay on top of the practicalities of closing our motel and moving back into our private home. I list in my head and on paper all the tasks that need to be performed prior to the moving day in the hope that a well-laid plan of action will also lessen the emotional impact.
Packing is an obvious first step. Only it is a bit like leaving old friends behind. Over the years, I harbored conflicting emotions about what they brought to my life, except for fond memories followed by years of feeling that what was no longer there. After each drained conversation, I said to myself, "You do not throw away fifty-plus years of friendship even if it died a long time ago." Is it time to let go now?
Is it time to let go of that sofa that was never comfortable and the rocking chairs that are held together by duct tape? Boxes of keys to unknown doors Expired meds that still reside in the medicine cabinet, a lone broken beach chair. Often, the selection process is tiring, while letting things stay rather than go seems effortless. I reexamine my miracle solution—let's just throw everything into a big box to be sorted at a later date. We'll have the rest of our lives to figure it out then.
I foresee packing, repacking, and attempting to combine two households into one. I've never moved in with a boyfriend and then broken up with him, but merging and downsizing at the same time is not a new experience for me.
When we left our home of over twenty-five years in Israel for life in the US, everything was left behind, excluding two suitcases for each of us containing clothes and some books. All that was left was discarded years later when we sold our house. By then, the emotional ties to the dusty collection of clothes, books, dolls, plates, silverware, etc., were largely severed.
When we left our rental house in Idaho after residing there for less than two years, it was packed by a professional company. I was flabbergasted by the number of boxes at the entrance by the end of the day. It should have alluded me to what would happen in the future, especially when five years into living in the motel, many of the same boxes, still untouched, were gathering dust in the shed.
Strict discipline will maintain your sanity, I lecture myself as I resort to making lists. It is clear and undebatable that this is the way to go. So, I mark packing with 1. Underline it and draw a sad face next to it.
I reflect on the necessary three parts that every honest project should entail:
- Throw and pack, then repeat.
- Set up in a new location.
- Move on
In parenthesis, I add a fourth one with a big question mark.
- Leave it unpacked?
