Hayyyyyyyyyy, I'm moving!
Relocating. Re-relocating. And several close to me have said, "how can we help you move?" Brilliant question.
Today I moved a Gang of Big Things with my pal Gina. She benevolently forced herself and an Enterprise van on me [halfway through the work she said, "thanks for letting me wear you down," which to me was the highest compliment. I am a tough nut. I know this. Sorry.] and, family style, we moved things from place to place, collaborating our brawn and winding up at the Goodwill, giving away appliances for free out of the van before they made their way inside.
My beloveds are frustrated by my unwillingness to assign them roles in my Big Move. Today Gina aka Dr. Phil said, "Let's talk about why you will never accept help." I attribute it to my hard-nosed Catholic upbringing and being the eldest child. Self-sufficient, cubed. I then launched into a sort of explanation that has helped me to understand my moves for the past 10 plus years.
The theory of psychogeography has existed for three quarters of a century, and has met with a practical resurgence in the form of Will Self. My colleague Michael first told me of this man, who walks from airports to his urban destinations (in order to give talks about Psychogeography, one presumes). He registers distance traveled, reinvigorates the life of the land- and cityscape with his presence, and arrives with a corporeal assimilation of what it means to have traveled. This is how I feel about moving.
Taking time to relocate in a way that is systematic and deliberate, not only do I do my body a huge favor by doing Real Life Crossfit (c'mon... it's yardwork. It's moving. It's being the mother of a toddler. All of these things ARE Crossfit.), I also get a literal feel for my possessions. I am no turtle. I only wish I could carry all of my possessions on my back at once. But having moved umpteen times in the past seven years or so, I have become skilled at the slash and trash method of distillation. I am a sucker for keeping birthday cards, but will launch into the recycling anything that no longer serves.
And so I take my time, and work my breathing while negotiating heavy boxes and tight corners. Moving always sucks. Always. It could be the ideal situation you're moving into, you're elated over it, and at least once you break down sobbing. I have no doubt this sobby mist will waft over me at some point in the next week. And I'll just let it come! And take a walk to the airport. Just because.