I am moving in nine days.
I am having difficulty breathing. Emotionally.
I've moved the better part of my belongings at least seven times in the last five years, from California to Vermont to Oregon to California. Now, an assorted selection of it will come with me on a plane to Paris France, and from there on a train to Bordeaux. One would think after moving about so often this whole process would get easier, but I have to admit that I think it's actually become more difficult. Why is that?
Theories abound - especially the kind that swirl into existence in the strange and delirious moments before sleep takes over - but I believe one holds particular sway: I am cursed with an unfortunately split character. Part of that personality I've had since childhood, the part that loathes change, the part that clings to the past (and whimsy) with the grip of a three-toed sloth. A psychic (and I use that term loosely) told me a few months ago that I had a serious problem with nostalgia. Sometimes I have a very strong urge to spend the rest of my life watering plants, baking elaborate pastry, and restoring wooden furniture. At home. Shorts and a sun hat. I don't even wear shorts.
Yet when logistics enter my frazzled brain and the details start forming, when that filthy word "career" appears, I can't think of anything less desirable than plunking down for the long haul and acquiring, piece by piece, a bevy of sauce pans and floor rugs. Having a job that begins at 9.00 am and ends at 5.00 pm. Going home tired, frustrated and/or bored, and mustering only enough energy to make dinner and eat it whilst watching TV. Having to find things to do with my free time. Saying goodbye to those uncomfortable and exhilirating moments of being anonymous.
I have a vagabond heart. And I also have one of a homebody. Curses.
So how do I find a compromise? How do I assuage that terror that accompanies this packing list I'm making?
What am I doing with my life?
Wandering, apparently.
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