blog in transition

Monday was the 31^st of May. All along Metropolitan and Graham avenues were parked U-Hauls waiting patiently as silent hipsters moved out of their apartments. Teddy bears and bags of shoes; the 31^st is notoriously moving day. Before this year, I never moved. I grew up in my childhood home where I was sheltered from that day when you move your belongings from one place to another. When I moved into my Brooklyn apartment, it was an adventure. It was not a solid move. I brought a small bag or two in my hands as well as a carry-case with whatever I could stuff into it. Much like one of those children who carry a bag over her shoulder as she runs away from home, I headed for the bus stop. As I climbed aboard the express bus from Staten Island to Manhattan, the bus driver thought he was clever when he joked, “What are you running away?” I looked him straight in the eyes and said, “Yes, actually I am.” 

I ran from Staten Island to Brooklyn in the summer of 2009. I left a note on the counter for my sleeping father, the day after his birthday. I rode into Brooklyn in the blistering late July heat, with my mother’s blessing and love, to begin a new phase of my life. This phase would be one of exploration and growth. Josh and I scrubbed the floors and transformed the place into a white sanctuary, one with French windows. As the sun set on the summer, it was hard to envision the day when I would not live here anymore.

It has always been hard for me to transition from one thing to the next. I fought hard each time my parent’s got it into their heads that we should move into a new house (or worse, a new state—my father wanted to move us to Connecticut, Massachusetts, New Jersey, and Maine throughout the course of my childhood). When the time finally came for me to leave that home which my father both built and destroyed, the song She’s Leaving Home could have been the underlying soundtrack to that scene.

When I saw these girls and guys, sipping beer and loading the truck on a rather lazy, I couldn’t help but wonder what they were feeling. Moving is an emotional transition; leaving behind the energy of a year’s time in that place. Though you of course, carry that energy with you in your muscle memory, a part of it remains in that place. 

I think about this more as August looms in the near future. Moving is very ritualistic. It is when I will have to face the memories that were created here, the vibes that filled this space, the love that brought us into this apartment---

I suppose it can also be triumphant to move from one home to the next. After all, moving can be the reaction to getting a new job, a new promotion, an acceleration into the future.  You can move into a bigger space, a more convenient location, a better rent deal… it can certainly be a very positive thing.

I suppose my question at this time is why I react so negatively to this sort of change. It could definitely stem from my deep rooted fear of my mortality (or one’s mortality), of getting older, of losing touch. Recently many people have told me I am blossoming before their eyes. I don’t really know how to respond to such comments, as  I don’t always feel I am blossoming. But somewhere inside is a flower, a daisy or a sunflower, inching toward the sun. 

 

When we talk we say,

Where are we going, baby?

To the top, baby.

And where’s that, sweet baby?

The top of the poppermost.

And then we smile and make merry.

That energy never dissipates. And I will love you for as long as that energy prevails.