It looked great on the surface of it.
A new apartment, with a gorgeous view. I mean, who wouldn’t say yes to that?
I did. I was the instigator of this move. I did the apartment searching. The financing work.
And so here we are. A year after purchasing, and months of renovations. Renovations that we planned to take at most 6 months that are now at 8.
And our current apartment is in contract. Our buyers were just approved to move in by the board of the co-op.
We will be getting dates for closing any day now, and then we will move into our beautiful new apartment with its dream view.
All good, right?
I. AM. NOT. PACKING. YET.
(Much to my husband’s consternation and confusion.)
I mean, I have been the instigator of all this upheaval.
I decided to totally redecorate and choose new furniture for the new apartment. To find new homes for the furniture that we have loved the past 8 years together in this first home we are now in and about to leave.
This was major, because most of the furniture came from my deceased parents’ home. It was oddly perfect timing, my father passing away after my mother and 3 months before our wedding. I have been surrounded these 8 years in our home by furniture that comforted me, held me…gave me a nest, truly.
And yet, here I am, ready to let it all go. My cousins are taking the pieces I would never be able to just give away to anybody. Close friends with kids are taking other pieces, which feels so right and good. Other people my husband knows are inheriting some things, which they need, want and are thrilled about, and that makes me happy.
The new furniture has been bought, and I love it.
I visit our new home and am stunned at how lovely it is going to be.
We are literally half out of our current place. My husband is packing most of what is left. Things are in boxes or are already gone. We are half in and half out. Limbo.
What. Is. Going. On. With. Me. And. This. Resistance.
I find myself wanting to stay in this limbo land. I feel as if I could hover here with one foot in and one foot out forever.
I am terrified. So scared. To move on. To enter fully into my truly adult life, beyond the losses that have so colored the last eleven years. To let the past fall away and let the present fully emerge.
I get panicked. If I let go of the bronzed tiny cowboy boots of my father’s that I brought up from Texas with the furniture, does it mean I loved him any less? Does it mean I am a better daughter and I really loved him if I hold on to them?
If I throw out or give away the plates my brother and I made in our childhood, will I forget him and our youth? Am I a bad person?
If I let go of the plastic container I handprinted with hearts that holds some of my mom’s cookie cutters that I gave her and brought up from her kitchen after she dies, does it mean I am not a loyal daughter? Will it hurt her feelings?
Will I lose who I am if I let go of these things? Will I lose their love somehow?
Who will I be if I am not carrying around these objects that are connected to my past?
Will I float into nothingness? Will I no longer know myself? Will I forget the people and the memories associated with these things?
I have to somehow resolve this. Find a way to keep moving through this change that on some level I called in for my own soul.
I have to find a way to actually make this move. It is a movement, after all.
I have to breathe. And trust. And move forward, into my life.