I am moving out of my home of 18 years. That gerund phrase will be accurate for the foreseeable future, as where I now sleep is but a temporary place to lay my head.
Out of town for a couple months, some friends offered me their house. As such, their belongings fill my transitory lodging, with little room for more. I have brought a few basics – shaving kit, toothbrush, a dresser full of clothes, rice cooker, a couple guitars – and little else.
I am moving out of my home of 18 years. That gerund phrase will be accurate for the foreseeable future, as where I now sleep is but a temporary place to lay my head.
Out of town for a couple months, some friends offered me their house. As such, their belongings fill my transitory lodging, with little room for more. I have brought a few basics – shaving kit, toothbrush, a dresser full of clothes, rice cooker, a couple guitars – and little else.
But there are essentials I must do without for the moment – a sense of security, routine. or well being, my dog and cats, and that which truly makes a home, my heart.
So far, the silence has not grown too deafening, though unfamiliar sounds in the new neighborhood wake me and bring unwelcome thoughts of isolation. And not having lived on my own for more than a quarter century, I hardly know how to act.
My first foray for groceries saw me pause more than once, lump in throat, and put foodstuffs back on the shelf. No need to buy ingredients for that meal my sons like so much. I am cooking for one.
At the old house, there is still so much to pack, and lots of space to locate for storing my things until I get into a new, more permanent living situation. In the meantime, I no longer live in my own house with my family, pets, and possessions; this fact swamps me with waves of sadness.
But not everything is tragedy. My life is upside down from moving, yes, and my heart is broken in a few pieces. But I am not locked in a correctional facility or confined to a hospital. Nor am I reeling from the destruction of my home, neighborhood, or town from natural disasters, fires, or attack from government or rebel forces. Unlike those separated by catastrophe, war, illness, or incarceration, I get to see my loved ones and pets almost every day.
Still, the ground I walk is so unfamiliar and uneven. The experience is not an exhilarating adventure but a wrenching ordeal, and there is nothing for it but to keep crossing this bleak divide. I simply have to live through it.
If there was ever a time to put up or shut up about maintaining perspective, this is it. The moving will go on, box by melancholy box, but if that’s the worst of my troubles, I’d best dry my tears and quit complaining. At least I have a place to stay, even if my heart is not in it.
Pat Grimes, a former South Bay resident, writes from Ypsilanti, Mich. He can be reached at pgwriter@inbox.com
