August 26, 2007

What a jumble.

I’ve been unpacking boxes. The floor is deep with crumbled tissue paper and a few loose styrofoam bop-dots gust across the room each time I open the front door. I am finally doing what looks like Moving In, to the home where I’ve pretty much lived since about last October or so, but not really officially until this past July 7, 2007–or July 30th, which is when I carted away the last of my possessions from the apartment in Fremont (where the new landlord raised the rent more than $200! for the new tenants).

The kitchen island is covered with dishes and cookbooks and items in transition. Amidst this chaos, empty boxes are the most tangible evidence that I have made any progress at all. I have one hour until Perry is home again, and I’m going to have to scramble something fierce to bring order to this mess before he arrives.

But all I want to do right now is rest here in the window seat, with a glass of Penalolen and watch the birds and squirrels, and see if I can’t bring some order to the chaos I feel within me. It is a challenge to do so, because I am not sure of the nature of the chaos.

I feel it. The hummingbird flits past me and the movement increases a sense of anxiety. In the corner of my eye I catch the motion of a squirrel speeding past, and it too, agitates me.

Who is it who sings, “Be still my beating heart”?

Here I am, finally moving into my new home. I still have only a vague sense that this is my home. The thing is, I don’t quite believe it. I don’t feel secure in my good fortune. I fret that all this beauty, all this amazing blessedness of my life, is going to POOF or SHATTER or something.

And I grapple with my fortune, the abundance of _things_ in my life, in conjunction with a general belief in surrender … if that makes sense. I am trying to Let Go, have faith, trust, accept the path that presents itself to me. And walk with gentle awareness.

So here I am, unpacking boxes. How many drinking vessels does one household need, anyway? Sweet little shot glasses. Big bulbous hand-blown red wine glasses. Champagne glasses. Tall tumblers. Short tumblers. Silver goblets. Precious green and ruby and blue and ambler snifters, that remind me of the glassware my grandmother passed down to me (but that is still in a box somewhere). I really grapple with a certain resonance with these pretty, fragile things, and my desire for an unburdened life.

So here I sit, with a jumble of feelings. A new home. Dashing hummingbirds. Dozens of glasses. A (new) husband who will be home any minute. And a glorious Blue Jay perched in the Western Red Cedar, imploring me to toss some peanuts out for his dinner. His simple life, his simple needs, distract me from the complicated mess in my (MY!) kitchen.

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