The packing continues.
It consumes weekends because they are the only days I have time to surround myself with the detritus of a couple of decades well lived and decide how it is going to fit into what bags and how those bags are going to make it across a very big pond.
There are boxes everywhere, boxes for the Lifeline shop, boxes for friends to sift through, shoe boxes, perfume boxes. Boxes, boxes, bloody boxes. There are shipping and excess baggage quotes to get for those boxes, because I need them and what they contain.
Work will wrap up soon, just 5 more days left at an extremely fulfilling job, one that gave and created great meaning. One I will miss.
There was a birthday dinner with family and there will be drinks with friends. There are people to see, those I haven’t seen in the six months I have been back and absolutely must before that six months becomes two, three, four years and those intervening years are filled with houses and children and travel and work and the distance between us grows greater than I would like.
SG has driven up to Kiel, his home town and my home town until August this year. We have a teeny little place there that will keep us warm and give us a little bolthole as we see other parts of that corner of the world. I will join him in 15 days. Hopefully my boxes will too.
I wrote this, a little while back.
I have been home for nearly 3 and a half months now and at some point, recently, there has been a shift. My cart has rattled up this stretch of rickety wood and metal and I am sitting at the top, staring at all I have been waiting for spread out below. Soon, no, currently, as I type, as you read, time and gravity are pushing the nose of my cart down and nudging it just enough. Just enough to make sure this ride continues, that all of this keeps going, that after a steady climb, a period of waiting and working and thinking and sorting, a hurtle follows, a hurtle towards all that is spread out below.
Right here, right now, I have a window. A window of time, perched up here in this little old cart, to get ready, to look down, to look back, to look around. Because in the blink of an eye, I’ll be hurtling towards the new – the new year, a new home, a new age – and all of this, these months of renewing and recharging and waiting, will be packed away as time gone by.
My little cart is hurtling now, down the other side. All I can do is hold on.