There are currently no fewer than 40 boxes, bags, or suitcases packed and stacked around my house, not to mention the awkwardly tilting piles of furniture, or the couch completely covered in rejected possessions bound for goodwill. I’m close enough that I could be completely done with just a few hours of dedicated labor. I have a few hours that I could be usefully employing in such a way.
Instead, I’m sitting on my bedroom floor with a vanilla coke zero and a handful of oreos.
I stare absently at the curtains that are too high for me to reach, or the half-dozen boxes half packed and sitting on my bed. These problems I could solve. Think of what a great sense of accomplishment I’d feel if I just got to work and finished! And yet, here I sit.
Of course, there are practical reasons why I shouldn’t really finish completely yet. I’m already concerned about where I’m going to sleep the rest of the week, as all of the blankets are washed, folded, and packed away, and the bed is significantly less comfortable without the luxury of sheets. And I had to buy plastic forks after I zealously stashed all of my kitchenware three days ago. I have to keep reminding myself that I can’t pack all of my clothes, as I do need to wear something between now and when I officially land in Louisville. And there are always things that I really shouldn’t attempt to do by myself, such as moving heavy furniture, or collecting the vases stored a good two feet above my reach.
But as I sit here, munching on an oreo and thinking about renting a movie (yeah, mine are packed…), I realize that there are probably some deeper reasons why I don’t want to finish. That great feeling of accomplishment will likely be partnered with a sinking feeling of completion – with the realization that I’m ending a really great chapter.
I’ve lived in this house for two amazing years – my first two as a true grown-up. Gone are the free days of college, with all of their late nights, last-minute papers, easy access to my closest friends, and part-time pay-the-bills jobs. In the last two years, I’ve had to find my feet in the adult world, put specific and deliberate effort into my relationships, and learn how to be responsible and comfortable on my own. And I’ve loved it from the beginning, but especially now as I begin to really appreciate it.
I’ve also had two years’ worth of Wednesdays full of Jr. High girls who come in with all of their drama, wisdom, humor, and adventures. I’ve had to make my house a metaphorical haven for them – a safe place where they’d love to come and where they’d always feel welcome. Within these now-barren walls are the echos of hundreds of jokes, stories, lessons, and high-pitched squeals. Not to mention the occasional splatter of pumpkin goo, craft paint, or ketchup-as-blood.
In a lot of ways, this house was a witness and host for all of the ways I’ve grown in the last couple years. So I really shouldn’t be too surprised at my reluctance to remove all indications that I lived here. But it would be ridiculous for me to read only a few chapters of a book, no matter how much I loved those chapters. At some point, you have to turn the page and start the next one.
And judging by these two years, the rest of my book is going to be pretty stinking amazing.
Maybe I can reach those vases, afterall…