Transitions

Almost everything I own now sits in the middle of the floor in a room that will soon no longer be mine.

I managed to consolidate four years of sundry into two suitcases and a huge gray plastic tub of clothes; four traveling bags stuffed so thick with books that they’re coming apart at the seams (needless to say, they feel as heavy as rocks); three boxes and one suitcase of miscellany; bundles of thick blankets and pillows; a hefty stack of my newspaper clips; and a few minor appliances.

The big blue rug I bought two years ago at Wal-Mart – truly an investment for my (still) broke self – still covers the shiny white tiles.

I suppose it’s natural to feel unsettled since I’m in the process of shifting living spaces and holding my breath for the six-day trip to Washington, D.C. next week. Nothing, I know, will really take shape in my life until I get back from up north and begin working (and writing) in earnest.

For some reason, I won’t feel settled until I’ve bought this sexy bookcase and filled it with the bagged books I’ve read and the ones I haven’t had time to yet. (I’ve been on Amy Tan’s The Opposite of Fate for weeks now.)

I should be tucking a few loose items into boxes with scant space right now, perhaps twisting my errant hair into some modicum of order (I haven’t touched it since last Wednesday outside of the occasional frustrated hand-through-the-hair fluff), making a shopping trip to get the bookcase and other nifty storage devices or prepping to make the actual move, but I’m sitting here instead thankfully relaxed and braless in jeans and a t-shirt, knocking my black espadrilles against the desk.

It feels good to be lazy although I have no business to. Darn good.