Into a forest darkly—the act of moving household after 11 years—making one’s way through leaving and arriving, often simultaneously, with lots of bumps, bruises, and breakage at both a physical and fiscal cost. As the physical toll makes itself known in the days and months to come, the fiscal total is immediately clear, just when a bit of obscurity would go a long way.
Moving undoes daily life, which is its purpose, leaving one life for another and in-between are boxes, which are always in short supply no matter how many are ordered, borrowed, begged. Boxes become the bitcoin of the moment.
And while recycle and up cycle are the catch words of living responsibly, not everyone wants what you have to give but the best of your friends will take it as you sort pans, Christmas bulbs, and shampoo into their respective boxes, hopefully.
Those same best friends ignore your babbling and just tend to what needs to be done. Later, they brush aside your inept attempts to thank them for being the wonderful people they are. However, they warn, “Don’t do it again.” And I won’t. I am too old to walk this forest again.
I have moved quite a bit in my life, more as a renter than as a homeowner, with much the same furniture and usually books in the hundreds, sometimes the high hundreds but this move is different, the last I make on my terms. The next is nursing home or death, and I prefer the latter. On my wheel of fortune there is no assisted living.
I keep what I love deeply and only that. In books that amounts to 33, mostly nonfiction; in furniture, an antique, mahogany bedroom set of my childhood from Aunt Mary and an oak rocker from Aunt Susie, which is the one item of a temporary nature. Someday, it will reside with my brother.
For everyday living, there’s a brown leather love seat and two black mesh filing cabinets that sit below each end of an oak door painted black years ago. Atop are the books, the fountain, yoga cats, pinecones, and meditating dog. I chose carefully and thoughtfully, keeping my eye on the prize, life on the other side of the move.
I had no choice but to leave my 690 ft.² apartment. My rent was raised twice in six months; the COLAs from both of my pensions no longer come close to covering the rent of “affordable” housing. So now I am in HUD housing in a market rate efficiency apartment of 222 ft.² It’s like tiny house living in a room with a view.
I had three weeks to move, which seemed like more than enough time to sort through belongings, box up what was left, and at night, watch home design shows on Amazon Prime. My challenge was a 12 ½’ x 17 ½’ room with galley-like kitchen and pantry (eight square feet total) to fill with furniture and 23 book-size boxes.
The hourly rate for professional movers is not insignificant. Even with boxes packed, the cost was staggering but within a forest darkly the only way is through and sometimes that means delays and detours.
The movers arrived late and then took their time, which was concerning not only to me but to the occupancy specialist at my new apartment building who values promptness and a singular way of doing things, such as signing papers upon move in (not a moment earlier or later). It’s her system of 20 years and I am not that fool to question it.
While I was signing, the movers were wandering, first to the wrong apartment building and when they found their way to my 12-story building, they entered the underground entrance improperly. Underground discussions ensued as captured on CCTV. It was the kind of day when it seemed certain the elevators would go down and so they did.
Time turns only on its dime.
Ultimately, I had less than 10 minutes to look at my actual apartment before the Tempurpedic adjustable bed, furniture, and boxes turned what I had known only as a floor plan into reality.
My nights of design time were well spent as only the vanity/desk and chest of drawers exchanged places (yes, those same best of friends were again on the scene), after I was notified of a building-wide apartment inspection in three days. A neighbor’s son and daughter-in-law were kind enough to hang my wall art.
Yet, my move was not yet complete.
For reasons I no longer understand (if I ever did), I decided to combine moving to a new apartment with donating my car to PBS. So much seems possible in the beginning of any life-changing event but then reality smiles and says, “Hold my beer.”
To be sure, there was far too much back and forth of I’ll donate the car/I won’t donate the car. Oh, I have yet another someone to buy it and yet another someone who cannot drive a stick shift. I had been done with driving for some time but to be done with car ownership is to be caught in a game of bumper cars with PBS, its vehicle vendor, and the state of Florida yet no thing lasts forever, even in the Sunshine State.
There are lots of conversations with truck drivers before the actual pick up of the vehicle as dates change, messages are mixed or parking spots are taken. Regardless, the truck drivers travel back and forth from Alabama with car trailers full or not for there’s always another run.
Here in historic, midtown Tallahassee, parking spaces and street sizes are from another century; the cement street curbs are steep, vintage 1950s, met by sloping, narrow boulevards of St. Augustine grass. A semi with a car trailer stops traffic in every direction so efficacy is appreciated.
When the day finally arrived for my car to be hauled away, I was instructed to put the title in the glove box and the key where the truck driver and I had agreed.
I don’t do well with sloping boulevards so I stood at the curb and locked my Traveler (walker) in place on the boulevard, away from me, so I could use the side and front of my white Toyota Psion XB for balance—there was enough room for a feather between my car and the car in front of it—as I lifted the weaker of my legs from the street over the curb and onto the boulevard, stabilizing myself with my stronger leg still left at the curb.
I did not feel the fire ants immediately, a testimony to my focus on getting the rest of me onto the boulevard so I could unlock the passenger door, put the car title in the glove box—THEN I felt the fire ants, tossed the key somewhere inside the car and slammed the door.
Nothing mattered anymore. Nothing. I was done except for brushing off the fire ants, which is no mean feat as they go wherever they want, especially between your toes, but this was my moment, too, and I made the best of it as the ants scrambled but not without leaving me stinging and later scarred yet all of us to home eventually.
It was weeks and days after my move began that I finally cleared the forest. In the subsequent months, a new chapter writes itself from my room with a view but sometimes I nod to the world as I once knew it.
13 thoughts on “Into a Forest Darkly: A Moving Experience”
We moved last year and I so hope it’s our last, but you never know what life might have in store. All the best in your new room with a view.
Thanks for stopping by, Chris! I hope it’s your last, too, but as you say who knows which way that road will bend, especially after these last five years. I’m glad I have known you in those years; you made that much more bearable. Of course, the work continues. Thanks for the good wishes!
Thank goodness for the view. Treetop living. Stay safe and well💛
Good to hear from you, Val! I must say I do like treetop living! You, too, stay safe and well. 💙
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Moving is always so difficult – the cupboards that seem to have space-warps in the back and keep disgorging more and more content even after being emptied once, the special rule of physics that makes sure every box is just that tiny bit too small for whatever is being put into it. I must admit it’s hard to imagine ditching books! (My own collection is in large part working library for my writing, so has to be kept). I hope all continues to work out well for you in the new place.
That is the perfect line for boxes: ” the special rule of physics that makes sure every box is just that tiny bit too small for whatever is being put into it.” As for the books, I am accumulating audiobooks as I once did in print, and fortunately my local library has an excellent audio collection. Between my older eyes (and the issues that come with that) and my hands, it became easier and easier to part with the books. I just couldn’t hold them anymore, literally, and it was really difficult for me to read “in the lines.” Fortunately, I find most of the research I need online but sometimes there is a trip to the library. Thanks for the good wishes about my new place. It is different for me in many regards and no doubt I will be writing about those. As always, thank you for stopping by.
I moved to this year and I too wish it is the last time in my life I will need to do this. Admire your bare naked truth telling.
Thanks for stopping by and for the kind words about my writing.
I have also moved frequently during my life. I’m sorry this move was forced. But your room with a view does have a beautiful view, KM. And your writing, as always, is powerful. Best wishes in your new home.
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Lynette, you have been on my mind as I know there have been so many changes in your life, and while I was not in touch, I sent love your way. I admire your strength and courage but especially your ability to carry on with what needs to be done and doing that so well. I am slower to write these days but in a new setting and in a new home, who knows what those changes will mean. I look forward to them. Thanks for the good wishes and kind words about my writing.
…and what a view you have. It is just beautiful. You are a person who appreciates what life brings. You will make more of that view than most would make of get-in-free day at Disney World.
It is an amazing view, isn’t it? Truly, each day it looks well, brand new! Who can have a bad day with that?