scribblechic

Up until this moment I haven’t allowed myself to fully entertain the possibility of failure; this decision, to move, feels fated. The past week has been a whirlwind of activity, but each action felt intentional; our footing on this path sure.

Today the realtor for our current home voiced uncertainties that created room enough for doubt. It was a necessary question, an important what if. There is no easy change, no accomplishment that does not invite risk, still I struggled all afternoon against the fear of failure I cannot control.

We could lose money, have to give up a new house we have come to love, put our children through unnecessary change. With all the what ifs I began to wonder, why bother? Why leave behind such certainty and stability at the cost of uncertain success.

We could stay put in a home and community that is familiar. Other opportunities will come along, different houses and career choices. We could move later when our children are older; when the decision is safer.

Except we can’t. I see the joy on my husband’s face reflected in my children’s company and I can feel the importance of this moment.

Just this once I don’t want to play it safe. I want to remember the childhood joy of counting off the heavy slap of swirling jump rope arches; the posture of flexing into chance undeterred by the possibility of poor timing or the embarrassment of getting tangled in failure.

There have been too many moments I’ve watched opportunity sweep past me from the sidelines, hesitating too long in the rhythm of change. I’m ready, to count off and jump.

There is something cathartic about purging material reminders of negative relationships from our home in anticipation of our move. For years my mother-in-law would supplement love and kindness with material generosity at the cost of submissive acquiescence intended to communicate a debt of gratitude.

This week I have gathered these objects into miscellaneous donations, releasing the cost of their obligations to the anonymous benefit strangers. No longer are they tethered to my spirit or weighted against my attention.

In much the same way we shared beloved books that they might inspire new dreams and sifted papers of old intentions forgotten in the busyness of daily life, I have also let go of clothes and costume jewelry long unworn, decorative objects kept in corners without purpose in want of use.

As our house empties purposefully into unspecific brown boxes, I am finding a new emotional space of peace; hoping that when we unpack our lives into our new home we will find a sense of plenty in the possession of fewer distractions.

Today was an exercise in self-truth. Beneath all the clutter free surfaces of my home, there is a quiet chaos. Neatly organized nooks of procrastinated uncertainty. Items I hesitated too long to sort until the task of remembering their importance is almost impossible.

I had planned to start the day sorting through my children’s rooms, but as they slept my unsettled energy lead me, instead, to my office. Well intentioned pages of helpful information stored as a resource for another day were shelved with favorite books and forgotten keepsakes. My third grade report card and a bridal shower invitation, a birthday card completely shellacked with signatures from another life and old yearbooks whose spines crackled against time.

As I considered the value of so much nonsense, I became committed to permanently sorting each space into specific categories: to keep, to share, to donate, to dispose. It was tempting to categorize by necessity, but I quickly found that necessary is a tricky work, it creates just enough manipulation to exaggerate worth into a reason to store miscellaneous nonsense.

It was a long day, I worked until I could feel myself rushing certainty. Each time I struggled against sorting I would pause, move to a new corner and begin again. It is discouraging to think how much work remains, but I am eager to begin the next chapter of our lives unburdened by excess.