I came home from the airport at 2am in morning on Monday to a house half-packed in boxes. We are moving to a new address soon and my sister has kickstarted the effort. While a bad hypertension attack has kept me in bed and useless*, the promise of the move has kept my spirits up.
Changing homes represents a fresh start. A de-cluttering. A purging. As we put our lives in cardboard boxes, we are given the unique opportunity to think about the years’ accretions. We get to ask ourselves what is important and what we are holding onto for the wrong reasons. The gorgeous, unworn, red “incentive” coat blazer, 2 sizes too small, will be put up for adoption; while my kids’ tattered blankets my mom hand-monogrammed will stay with me. My husband will scan and shred mounds of documents, and move with only a hard drive. The kids will give away toys and clothes that they’ve outgrown, and keep only what can find shelf space in their new rooms.
The move also inspires an emotional cache clearing. We leave the difficult memories of Ondoy in the water-damaged wood mouldings of the house on Dona Juliana Street, in favor of the possibilities of the wide, dry (!) spaces in our Upton Street address. The blessing that is our beautiful new home makes negativity about work or school or health or family seem like wasteful emotional indulgences. With the clearing of inner clutter, we hope to make room for assets that truly matter.
We move in two weeks.
* I forgot to bring my meds to the US and flew home in coach, sandwiched between two large men, bringing my blood circulation to a stand still. Left leg was numb half the trip!