I am working on a couple of long posts describing big projects underway. I hope to finish one soon. However as of yesterday I am facing an enormous distraction: we may have to move next month. I will know in another week.
The move is not from the farm (where we don’t live), or even from the area. It would simply be out of our school apartment and down the road. The place to which we would be moving (if it happens) is lovely and fully furnished. We would only be living there five years, until DH’s retirement, so I would not be nesting there. In many ways, such a move would be a win-win.
As I have spent recent years developing the farm, I have disengaged emotionally and physically from this apartment where we have lived since 1999. The gorgeous giant perennial flower bed I created when Lucy was a baby was overtaken by invasive goutweed five years ago: I let it go. The granite walkway I installed in 2000 has been encroached by grass. But most of all, while dealing with the deaths of three parents — and thus the accumulation of inherited “stuff” — plus a family crisis unspooling over years, various storage spaces in the apartment have become dumping grounds behind closed doors, to be dealt with “later.” Sorting out these spaces has been on my list forever. It’s on my six-page list for this summer. However, if we really are going to move in five weeks, the list is instantly reconfigured. I need to do it now.
This would be a good thing: a very good thing. I know I will feel better and less burdened when so much of this stuff is gone. (Just as one infinitesimal example: DH does not wear overcoats, yet we have three stored, from our two departed fathers.) To have the messy clutter dealt with, the closets weeded, and the jammed garage cleared out will lighten my heart. However, it will also be a lot of work. In the next month, DH is scheduled to be away three weeks, on work trips to California, Guatemala, and China. I’m picturing getting this done between driving the 2-3x daily carpools, milking the cow, sweating out the farm work, and everything else. It’s daunting.
Last night, unable to sleep as my mind raced with anxiety, I sat up and planned a course of attack. I know I can do it. I have always been the one to pack up our family for all our moves. It’s true that after sixteen years, I’m out of practice — and our load is much larger. However, I remind myself that the last time I moved us, Lucy was eighteen months old, and now she’s almost eighteen years old. She can be a strong right hand.
Again, a move may not happen at all. I will know next week. Either way, I am finally going to get those burdensome spaces dealt with. That will be a positive thing.