intuition.
"…And if I may ask a dumb question … did you decide to move for more practical reasons, like a job change, or other reasons? Just curious…"
Now this is a totally normal question. Not outta place in the least or strangely put. Just the curiosity of a woman who hasn’t yet met me beyond my writing. And a good question, I might add. I read it over and over. Had I ever answered it really? Beyond my own personal desire to live by the water; against the mountains, inside fresh air, in a small community? No, I hadn’t. What is the real reason I am moving? Why?
What does she mean? I asked myself that question as her words echoed through my gut and my mind tried to process an answer that seemed to come out looking like a tossed up scrabble board.
Why? What are my practical reasons for moving? Why do I do this? Why did I chose to put myself up to the uprooting, where every belonging that gets packed away is fingered and thought of and recorded somewhere in our souls, as an image, a symbol of this life. This process reminding me more than ever of my mortality and my flaws; the fears and my regrets; the mistakes I have made and the love I have painstakingly given. Even the joy seems melancholy. For the first time ever, I pack with true consciousness. Each symbol I see now has more meaning. In the past it connected to me and those before me or next to me, but for the first time, they now have history and life with those who came in front of me; my children. And I mourn for them, for this home and this space, and each of these little things; the photos, the art, the books, the toys, the fabrics, the furniture, the clothes, will never again be seen by them arranged in this home. Soon it will be just a memory, a flash of place; light floors and smudged windows and splashes of color we all gathered and displayed. Will now remain only a smell of the healing desert in the autumn after a very long and flaming summer? Will their memories get weaker in time, fuzzy and jumbled and become completely abstract? Will they become a song? Something that’s been played over and over while we packed and humped boxes around? Will time eventually turn them from memory to just another tool, like a fabric from their intuition? Where they then become part of non-visual map that will guide them from place to decision all on their own someday?
This is hard. Harder than I thought. I catch myself in tears as I walk through a hollowed out living room. The stereo sits on the living floor, acting as our only remaining piece of furniture. It’s surrounded by Mitzy the Cat, some plastic rings that come from Mia’s Pretty Pretty Princess game, a sock monkey, a duffle bag, a pair of crocs, the vacuum, one of my dogs, lots of dirt and my soon to be homeless plants. It is just barely my house. If I squint I can see what used to be there just yesterday. I curse as I open a cupboard to sprinkle salt on my flatbread with heirloom tomato sandwich and there is no salt, the shelf is bare, packed away. I gave birth right were I sit as I type, instead of moaning the sounds of MMMMAAAAA in a tub while a baby comes out, I am now on outdoor chairs, one under my ass and one under my feet to ease the lower back that stress threw and take pressure off the varicosities that still pulse in my “down there” regions. I am waiting to birth again, but it won’t be here. I feel oddly empty when I hear the echo of B’s heavy boots coming down the hall. I get a bit sick when I see the built-inn bookshelves my husband deigned and made with his hands; basically empty, filled with left-over scraps of life. To keep, to toss, to share; that remains their question.
When I didn’t have kids I just threw all my shit in a box, or gave it away to friends and never thought of them again, except for a moment here or there whatever did happen to those burgundy cords? Or those black suede gloves? Or that little fairy statue that held the crystal? Where the fuck did that really cozy purple velvet duvet go, the one that was always covered in white dog hair? I had little attachment to any of my things. But now my things have given memory to my children. My things are their things; a part of their life. They are barely things anymore, they just are. It seems sad, very, very sad for some reason. I ask myself that question, why, in a different context now. I ask myself like I am accusing myself of doing something very wrong. With the emotional and physical demands of moving, I wonder why I would do this to my, my lover, my babies? It is a cleansing that is needed, but a cleansing with salt-water on life-long skin abrasions, no less.
And at the same time this type of sadness and self-judgment are not permanent. It is me testing my limits, allowing myself to really feel loss and dare myself to question my choices. I know in time, as I get closer to Zion Park for our first camping stop, the sadness will begin to peel away along with my protective skin, ideal for the desert, but now skin I must shed. Or perhaps it may just take the whole way to the ocean, the bubbly autumn sea waters, rapidly cooling as each passing night becomes dawn. The water will wash it away; the salt scouring and scrubbing away what once was but now not needed. I just know somewhere, not far off as all, it will fade away, blur into white zap and be gone. Just like that. I don’t hold this sadness too close. Just close enough.
Why are we moving? The only practical reasons I can think of is one particular school in Bellingham I can really feel myself sending Mia. Mind you this happens to be a school I have never physically visited and I don’t know one child that actually attends there. I just get a very real and good feeling about it. The fact that they let you make up your child’s own schooling schedule from pre-school until eighth grade won me over. They are not against academics at an early age; they just prefer to teach them through outdoor exploration instead of by book and by desk. And I guess another reason might be that the work my husband does is much more understood and practiced (sustainable building and development) in that part of the country. And I have exactly six friends there; 2 of whom I never met.
I am not sure if any of those constitutes practical.
As for the others reasons I am moving?
I am thinking; I am deeply listening to myself to hear this answer. I sit and listen and wait. And after I get passed that “I must be a horrible mother to drag my kid out of there home and force change upon them”, I soften and trust myself. I begin to hear a whisper from somewhere inside, or perhaps it comes from the wind. But I can hear it. And I can only come up with one conclusion. I guess the best way to describe it would be: Intuition.
