The days have blended together. One into another. Indistinguishable. Like a cup of water that I’ve dipped a paintbrush in that I’ve been using to watercolor. Murky.
We’ve been working towards today, when our home was being photographed to prepare for listing it for sale. Depersonalizing it in the hope a potential buyer could picture themselves living there. I packed up my weird - the tarot card decks, the taxidermied raccoon, our puppets and vintage games. Yesterday, my body ached when I awoke and I posted a desperate SOS on Facebook. I felt that help would get me to my end goal sooner last night, which was to lie down on my bed. I was right but best of all our neighbor came over and solved a lighting problem in our basement, a problem that had prompted me to call two electricians. One called back today. Never mind, electrician. The mechanic fixed it.
The neighbor also helped Andrea navigate what we refer to as “Wrigley’s couch” out of our bedroom and down to the basement. It’s a loveseat. We set up a dog bed at the foot of our bed for Wrigley, placing it in the same spot his loveseat has been in. He wasn’t impressed and joined Andrea, myself, Georgie and a Gypsy caravan of cats in the bed. One would come. Another would leave. Bogart enjoyed the dog bed. We slept fitfully and when our alarms went off I begged for more time to slept and moaned, “My hip hurts!”
Andrea plied me with coffee and we got to work again, scurrying to finish our seemingly endless “to do” list, which had been written and rewritten as things were done and new things emerged. I left Andrea and went to a work meeting and returned as the realtor and photographer were there. Surreal. This moment we’ve been working toward - here it was. In focus. Click. The realtor would pluck items from the photographer’s lens - my meditation seat. Click. She’d push a plant back. Click. Hoist an exercise bike from a room. Click. Click. I watch and think, “My hip. My back. I’ll move that stuff to the basement next Wednesday night.”
The photographer left and we signed some more paperwork with the realtor. Every now and then, it hits me. We’re moving. To Virginia. Holy shit.
Early tomorrow morning, we’re flying to Virginia - on a quest to find a new home for our collection of weird. The bat skeleton. Us. The pets. All of it. I’m looking forward to a few days off of lifting and hope my back and hip are ready to move remaining items so the home is ready for the broker walk thru next week, followed by the open house. Houses. There it is again. A holy shit moment.
Author Anne Lamott writes that there are three prayers: 1) Help 2) Thanks and 3) Wow. I think one and three are similar to "holy shit". In a 2012 Morning Edition interview on NPR, Lamott explained 'help' like this: "....you may take a long, quavering breath and say, 'Help.' People say 'help' without actually believing anything hears that. But it is the great prayer, and it is the hardest prayer, because you have to admit defeat — you have to surrender, which is the hardest thing any of us do, ever."
I still made it to work out twice this week, a real work out as opposed to schlepping boxes. As I laid on my yoga mat at the end of class, a country song called, “God Bless this Mess.” came on. Ha. Holy shit - the universe is always speaking to us. We’re not always listening. But I was listening from my yoga mat on Wednesday morning and thought, “Holy shit. If this isn’t appropriate....”
God bless this mess If this is as good as it's gonna get I'm gonna hold you like I know it's gonna be okay again I got a hurricane in my heart Keeps on rattling the gooder part And honestly, I'm just an honest wreck But I'm trying my best God bless this mess, oh, god bless this mess
Most the time I forget to pray But when I close my eyes, I just say God bless this mess If this is as good as it's gonna get -Jillian Jacqueline 📷ReplyForward
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