Earlier this month, I was planning to move house for the third time in two years. It would have been a good move too–shorter commute, less driving in general, closer to downtown, living with friends, spacious apartment. I was dreading it, of course, as does anyone who owns stuff. I’m very wary of even thinking about moving, but I was actually starting to embrace this one. Until shit hit the fan and we lost the place.
In those couple of days that we thought we had the place, the gears had already begun to turn. I was already making lists of things I could stash at work VS things I wanted to bring VS things I could send back to my parent’s house. I started making lists, piling up things to bring to Good Will, and I even packed two small boxes of smaller items. Now I’ve got to unpack that stuff. When I thought I was moving, my way of thinking about my belongings changed, and changed once again when I knew I wasn’t moving.