The sun is out, but it’s bitter cold. I’m sure that Minnesota is torturing everyone because we are leaving and it wishes to give us a proper, frozen, snow-covered send off. I packed three boxes and filled a bag with trash, the same thing I’ve been doing for weeks.
I empty all the spaces of the things we won’t use this week, but leave enough plates and bowls and toys, because of eating and kids. The walls are bare, institutional and empty. The nail holes are patched and I have the urge to redecorate for just a couple more days. It’s a blank canvas taunting me. Gathered items to donate, return, mail, keep accessible are collected. And yet, we still must go on doing the living things in the place filled with transition.
These days are spent in the limbo of half we-live-here and half we-won’t-be-here-long. The uninspired state of deconstruction, the anti-creative act of returning these walls and cabinets to their dull, uninteresting selves. The state of in-between, the balance of contentment and anticipation. Doing what must be done before the next part, one box, one day at a time.
And while I’m going crazy, I will admit, this place reminds me to see that I am in good hands, because the timing is key and the author is telling his story, with major plot points yet to be unveiled. The details and answers, they will be clear, at just the right time.
So, I resist the urge to pack every essential item and rest in that place.
Empty white walls and all.