The sum total of how it feels on the last day of moving to a different home can be summed up by this poem…
You’re an uncouth animal
Barely able to drag your knuckles off the ground
It’s amazing your thumb still works
Why don’t you go and suck it
Ah that sense of satisfaction that should be there at the end of eternal lugging of material crap up a hill into a quirkily shaped abode with gorgeous views is overshadowed by tired aggravation and a deep need for sleep.
My wise old pepper-haired gran used to ask whether we possessed our possessions, or whether they possessed us. I still don’t know the answer. I wouldn’t be able to take pictures without my camera, as far as inanimate objects go, it is important to me, I guess that means it possesses me in a way.
Then there are things I hang onto that almost represent bookmarks of reflection points that would be nice to let go of.
For example, a shirt that used to look fantastic on me when I was two stone smaller lives in my aspirational clothes drawer, has done since I got pregnant. I have clung onto this thing through pregnancy, nursing, toddler-mumhood and I just never get small enough to look as good in it as I used to. I love the pattern, colours, fabric and style of it, so I hang onto it.
Just yesterday I decided once and for all that I was going to get rid of it, send it to the charity shop and let some other youthful lady reap the benefit (it’s a great top, pretty lucky too), and I was filled with a surprising feeling… it’s that horrible sensation you get in the pit of your stomach when you quit something just before you discover that you were about to get somewhere significant, but instead quit because you don’t really believe it will happen for long enough to persevere. I felt like if I threw this shirt out, I’d be giving up on ever wearing it again.
I know that sounds fatuous, right? In reality it’s all an illusion, weight is just a figment of everyone’s collective dream of now… but it was an illusion that triggered that little feeling that would make any good scientie book an emergency clearing session, or anyone else to call their therapist. Unfortunately I have a budget therapist, me. I work for table scraps and can beat the fee of any self-respecting professional out there. And in the absence of expertise in this area, I opted to keep the shirt.
I’ve been on a very slow diet. It’s heading in the right direction, but with age comes reluctance. The body is almost hanging onto every single pound for all it’s worth. But at certain times of the month, that happen to coincide with moving lock, stock and a gross of barrels, self-esteem and body dysmorphia morph into a hormonal fat cry baby – a tragic time when it seems possible that nothing will ever be right with the world again.
I love this house… probably as much as I did the last one, but for different reasons. I am not looking forward to all the admin that comes with moving… informing everyone, bank, hmrc… which reminds me I have a return to file – it should be fairly simple to most people, but for me it represents huge anxiety. I don’t know why.
I’ve also been thinking about going back to a formal job. I have a good feeling about professional development. It fits in with my background, and I’d be good with technical people because I understand the environment so well. I’ll be looking for work over the next while, while writing too. I need to finish book 2 and 3 …. because there are people who read book 1 and enjoyed it before I pulled it.
The work I already have is quite good for me, the leaflets get me walking for hours and the other adhoc job means I get to work with children – I love working with children. I’m also developing a term length interactive book club programme which I’m hoping to develop because I want to help children relate to reading in more engaging ways.
The best aspect of moving is the clearing. Not just parting with things I can bear to part with, but as hard and painful as it is to face, and as emotional the triggers pulled become, the outlook is cathartic. With a lot on the horizon, and the big distraction almost on it’s way, I guess that may be why I’m anxious about coming to the end of it. Aquarians tend to dislike starting and finishing anything… they’re best when they’re in the middle of it all.
It’s a bit sad to move on from one place to another, and with moving comes circumspect contemplation. A continuation of life and goals. The address may have changed, but the direction hasn’t – the mission is to face your fears with good goals — which is all good and well to speak of in the third person, but more vocal to perform from the first. I will face my fears with good goals.
But most importantly there’s this new bed. It is a great one with a dreamy cloudy, soft, cuddly quality and I am in love with it. This is the best part of moving. The bed which now possesses me…. speaking of which