moving, part two
I never actually finished the blog post on moving, because once we got into the final stages, it was an all-out circus. For what felt like an eternity, I was driving back and forth between Tacoma and Portland multiple times weekly.
It was, simply put, awful. Trying to suddenly off-load enormous quantities of “stuff” that we literally didn’t have space for, cursing myself for ever having thought I needed said stuff, wondering what was wrong with me for needing so much stuff, feeling guilty about having accumulated said stuff, feeling guilty about wishing I could dump it off on the side of the road and escape my responsibility for dealing with it when so many in the world struggle to meet their basic needs…
It was a month of hell.
And then there was the period of literally being trapped by all our stuff, so piled up we could hardly move in our apartment, let alone find anything, or have a little space to breathe or lay down and cry that wasn’t covered in boxes.
Dealing with a partner and a child who tend towards collecting didn’t help my own anxiety around shedding it all as fast as possible. I wanted it gone, ideally two moves ago. They have to go through things item by item to decide. I prefer to sweep it all in a trash bag in one fell swoop and throw it out without a second glance. It perfectly reflects our broader tendencies towards life.
What I tell myself in moments of sheer terror at what we’ve just done (moved into a 750 sq ft apartment) is that being in this small space will force us to finally confront all the stuff we’ve been hiding in the back closet. You can’t hide in a space like this. You can’t not address the lingering conflicts, doubts, annoyances. You can’t not talk about the things that come up because they are right there, in your face.
For a family steeped in white supremacy culture and patriarchy (whether we like it or not), it’s a step towards re-framing how we relate to each other and to the world at large. Yes, we actually have to communicate. In words. And then, in action. There’s no room here for passive-aggressiveness, for avoidance, for wishing away, for letting someone else deal with it. There just aren’t that many places to stuff things away. It will all come tumbling off the shelf right back at you.
So, I continue to sit with the sifting and sorting, the clumsy negotiations around how many board games and boxes of Legos we keep, where the extra computer keyboards are kept (how the fuck many do we need again and why?!), how many monitors are ok in one tiny ass living room. Also, how many plants one apartment can have, and maybe we narrow the tea selection, and really, maybe we don’t need five kinds of rice in the house. Do we?
It seems trivial, but with every item we let go of, I feel like we’re moving closer to a kind of freedom I have not felt in a long time. It’s privilege to be able to decide, yes. But also, a particular freedom from tyranny of constricting narratives around what constitutes a meaningful life. After forty years of constant, exhausting striving, I’m ready to cultivate a smaller space in which, ironically, I can breathe more deeply and not bang into so much stuff.
