boxes: packing them up, checking them off
In the February box (eek it's March?!) of the giant to-do list posted on my wall, there's a whole lot of business to get down to. People keep asking me “are you getting excited to leave? are you working on it yet?” and when I respond affirmatively, they expect me to have an itinerary and departure date. I don't. (Yet). This month has mostly been about sorting and gathering. Sorting through boxes of 7th grade history reports and crumpled check-up awards littered with paperclips and dried paint-tubes. Sorting through the childhood costumes I own (literally and figuratively), trying them on again, letting them go. Reacquainting with the vortex of past-selves that emerge in a hovering frenzy in doing these kinds of tasks. I've always been materialistic in my nostalgic attachment to objects and paper. I'm trying not to sentimentalize the process of moving out.
At various times in my life I've already thought I was 'moving out' of my parents' house, gathering my belongings and flying the nest, only to find more of my remnants in the garage when I come back to visit, only to find myself living at home again for longer than I expected to. These are not bad findings at all, but I had imagined a satisfying finality to 'moving out,' this milestone in American young-adulthood, and in my experience it's been much more gradual and ambiguous. I realize it's such a privilege to be able to come home and stay a while when I need to, and I'm so grateful for it.
So here I am preparing to leave, fully aware that this time could just be another clearing and sorting and 'moving' with false-finality. Here I am trying to leave as little behind as possible and take even less with me, and it does feel different. I've never left for this long or with such uncertainty toward my future homes.
Holding the strands that tie me to this place – the photos, the remnants, the ocean air and monterey cyprus trees, the way papa raises his eyebrows and smiles, the way grandma's hands run across her napkin, the way mom and dad continue to suggest that I eat something, continue to advise me on showing respect and taking care, the way Callie grows into an adult version of my baby brother. The way we orbit each other.
Gathering these strands, loving them, tucking them into my nest.
