I am currently moving, and the entire process — while exhausting — is definitely one of Life’s Mysteries.
The definition of Mystery: an event that only those who have been initiated into it understand fully; it’s generally difficult if not impossible to describe the Mystery, which is why it’s a Mystery.
There are various Mysteries in different religions, but there are secular ones too — the mysteries we go through as members of a society that places importance on those things. Moving, in our North American society, is generally more of a Mystery the first time one goes through it on one’s own — I’m speaking of the “moving out of your parents’ house for the first time” move, not any ones you may have done as a family in your youth. (Those Mysteries are different and have less universal meaning attached.)
I’ve moved several times at this point – I first moved out of the house when I was 18, and have lived on my own more or less steadily since (minus a few moves back to Mom’s place to save money). This current move is another one back to my mother, because now that I am out of school until January at least, I am not on loans until then either — and I cannot afford the rent at my beautiful one-bedroom basement suite.
I also cannot afford to keep all my stuff. This is where the lessons lie for this move, where the new Mystery is. For years I have held onto things, loathe to get rid of them, because I have lacked any sense of security in my surroundings for too long. Stuff means security to my animal and non-rational brain. Rationally I can see it’s quite the opposite, but regardless what I can logically accept with the part of my brain not driven by fear, I cannot force myself to comply lest panic sets in. (Oh, the joys of having an anxiety disorder.)
However, things have changed. With graduation (another Mystery) from my University, I have entered another stage of my life (never mind I may be returning to school in a few months — the transition has already set in). On top of that, I have felt quite safe for 8 months now — living on my own has done wonders for the feeling of security in my life, because there’s no one around to mess with my stuff, my space. While I still may be friends with a few of my roommates, the fact remains that while they were roommates they were intruders in my den. My animal brain reacts to the presence of roommates with instant fight or flight response. Not conducive to healthy living, for them or me.
Eight months of being able to relax in my surroundings and fully claim them as mine, my den, has — if not eliminated — greatly reduced my attachment to stuff.
So begins the great inventory of things, and several garage sales coming up in September. In two months I will vacate my haven here, and start the New Year* in my mother’s house (just in time to start NaNoWriMo, too — it’ll be easier to do so without the stress of finding rent money hanging over my head). I will remake myself in portability, and come my time to move to Vancouver (which will either be January, if I get into Langara, or later if I don’t), I will hopefully be able to within a week — instead of the several months it usually takes me.
What are your experiences with the Mystery of moving? Have you ever moved? Do you agree it’s something one doesn’t understand until it’s been done? Or do you think I’m just a crazy Pagan?