boxes…

Everything is transition these days. We’re in a new house this week and I am, once again, surrounded by boxes. It makes me crazy, being surrounded by boxes. I’ve done this moving houses thing now more times than I’d like to remember and there are pieces of it at the start of the process that I actually enjoy or at the very least, pieces I don’t hate altogether.

I love the process of purging, going through all the things we’ve accumulated, tossing things, dusting things off, wrapping things carefully and labeling them in the box. At about the 40th box though, I realize, we have a lot of crap. It’s off-putting and then it’s depressing and then I just want to lay on the couch and play Angry Birds until the feeling of overwhelm passes.

I love seeing the boxes stack up, all neat and orderly. “This is my life,” I think to myself. That stack of boxes is the sum of what we do here and how we spend our time. The trouble is, I always begin packing earlier than I should. Inevitably, the depression seeps in again when I look at the proud stack of boxes reaching up the walls and notice that having this many things packed has no impact on my everyday life. We have a lot of crap and the couch calls me to have a lie down so I do…because the couch is my friend.

It goes on like this for weeks sometimes and I become less motivated, less organized, more inclined toward the couch. It’s my past in the first boxes, it’s the dust and the extraneous stuff that’s been filling in the cracks all this time. Those last few days before the move, those last boxes are my present. Those boxes I’ve been neatly packing, carefully preserving contents, labeling, pondering, those things are all my past, that’s my margin, right there. The closer the move comes the more cranky I become, the more I am forced to live in the present, the deadline bearing down on me. The closer the move comes the more I am forced to place my present life into a box and I question everything then- can I live without this utensil? Can I make do with only one saucepan? Will I need this coat, this razor, this scrap of paper? It goes on like this day after day and the couch calls out but now, I don’t have time for that couch. Now, I’m panicked and scattered, parts of me in boxes, parts of me in desk drawers I’d forgotten about or in the back of the cabinet I’ve been avoiding for weeks. I become stingy with the boxes, cramming as much in as possible. My past is all wrapped up in newsprint and bubble wrap but the present get tossed all together, fingers crossed, hoping for the best. I begin to think, “this box I’ll take in the car with me for protection” to excuse the lousy way I’ve handled the present. The stack of “present tense” boxes, ones that I have to protect because of my sloppy handling, because of my couch lounging and angry birds, begins to out number the past, the carefully wrapped, the well labeled. I bark at my kids and I glare at my husband. I fail to grocery shop. I forget to brush my teeth. I let everything go because this is the transition, from one place to another and the vision I’d had of myself, being the calm and organized author of this move erodes until reality shows the harried and wild-eyed, desperate version of me.

It occurs to me now, sitting in the new house, in this rare moment of quiet surrounded by the boxes, just how inclined I am to treat the present like this all the time. I push is aside, I wrap it poorly, making it an afterthought thinking only of what lies ahead or what came before. The most vital and important pieces, the pieces that make this whole thing work have been tossed into the last boxes, the ones that I think I’ll pile into my car, fingers crossed and hoping for the best. They are the most transient things, the moving pieces of us- the school permission slips that need signing, the checkbook, the toothbrushes, the phone chargers, things we will need to move through the next part of the transition. In the middle of the packing the day before the move Henry saw me in my frenzy and he offered me a hug and I confess in that moment I nearly declined. In fact, I think I did say, “in a minute” to him. The nice thing about Henry is that he didn’t take no for an answer just then, he insisted on that hug and so I stopped, put down the boxes and the lists and the stress and took in that moment because this could not go into a box for later. I wrapped it up carefully, that present moment. I let it soak into me, storing that feeling in my skin and my cells and my frenzied spirit until it filled me up again.  I realized then it’s not the cell phone charger or the permission slips or the checkbook that are the essential pieces, the moving pieces, the vital pieces of us. It is this, this, this and thank God for that.

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2 thoughts on “boxes…

  1. Well God bless you. In the military they move you very often to keep you from having too many attachments (my husband knows…he spent his life moving every 2-3 years). I, however, am one to settle in, and by golly, it will take a bulldozer to move me….or a casket. I think I might adopt the plan of just staying here until I die, and then let the children sort it all out….because really, I have given them so much and they have “left me” with so much “stuff” that they didn’t want when they moved. Then they can savor all those memories as they go through everything that is tucked away in some crevice or closet….gathering dust, and waiting to be brought out into the light. God bless Henry….he saved the day. Hugs to you.

  2. Often, I’d race through lunch with a friend and sit distracted through the conversation, because my mind was already preoccupied with the five or ten things I was supposed to be doing afterward. Invariably I’d cut the meeting short, pack the unfinished meal to go, and apologize for my hasty departure. I’d say something like, “We’ll talk more next time.” Then just as I was walking away, I’d feel that awful regret because I realized I’d cheated myself out of my friend’s wonderful company. I wonder when I picked up that bad habit to treat the Present like something I could toss into a takeout box and deal with later. Because I should know by now that microwaved leftover meals are never as warm and hearty as the moment they were initially served.

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