My hatred of moving escalates each time I move. How do we accumulate all this stuff in our lives? I never think it's all that much stuff, yet it always becomes truckload after truckload of just STUFF. Kitchen: fridge, pantry, utensils, dishes, pots and pans. Closets: stuff and clothes. Bedding. Books. Stuff on desks. How can I whittle STUFF down?
Anyway, the studio is finally starting to feel like home. Like it's mine. I remember the days after my brother and Grant left. With the apartment disfigured by the absence of Grant's stuff, and our things being packed, the quiet of just me, I felt homeless, alone. Home wasn't home. And the new place was not home. I worried that there won't be a "yet" after that last sentence.
Now our little family has settled in. Of course, there are still some persistent boxes that insists upon sitting there unpacked, but we've already entertained, meaning things are at least presentable.
And that makes me happy.
No comments:
Post a Comment