The Mountain is Moved!

The mountain is moved!

Now’s the tidying up.

Some 24 hours until final exit of mobile home 7. With most everything now in storage or a rental room, what’s left are last-minute loose ends. Bed & bedding … makings for the morning coffee … important files … tool box … cleaning supplies … those things useful until the final moments in a move.

I worked late into the night yesterday organizing chaos into order and cleaning. Every surface, nook and cranny, every knob and underneath knobs … every single surface inside every cupboard, refrigerator, oven, etc. etc. and etc.

Long is the list of a deep cleaning! Especially by a meticulous no-stone-left-unturned-type that is moi!

The cleaning ladies will have absolutely ZERO to do after I vacate! But they’ll be paid — and paid handsomely — anyways. They’ll love that.

By the way, I’ve seen the results of their “professional cleaning.” C-R-A-P-P-Y! Sloppy! Just plain gross! Always amazes and irks me that “professional cleaners” get paid so well to do such shitty work whereas I do fantastic work and get bupkis! Anyway.

Moving Time is when my natural Neat Freak lifestyle really come in handy! Keeping a place immaculate or nearly so all the time means less work in the crush and crunch of moving. It’s like pouring money into the bank and bingo! when you relocate, you receive a nice tidy sum of interest!

Today’s the final dismantling of the home I created. Taking down all the uniquely creative curtains (and rods) I crafted by hand. Filling the tiny holes (of push pins or nails) in walls that I painted.

I know my landlord wouldn’t notice or even care about those details. She wouldn’t “ding” me on them. Hell, this place was a ghetto when I took over! The devil may be in the details but it ain’t her devil!

However, I do care. I’m weird that way. In a good way. Spaces and Places. It’s who I am, it’s what I do. No matter how shitty the domestic experience with roommate or landlord, I NEVER take it out on a space! I ALWAYS leave it impeccable and ALWAYS in much better shape than I found it.

The highest road is ALWAYS taken when I vacate, regardless of how bad people are or treat me. My gift to the world, nee universe, is my highest regard and respect and treatment OF a space.

Mobile home number 7 is no different.

High noon. I could easily spring for another cup of coffee and writing time. Alas, tasks beckon. Tonight and tomorrow are long shifts at the job, behooving me to stay on track with tasks and manage my time — what little time I’ve remaining here — well.

A day is all.

Last but certainly not least: Mercury retrogrades today! Already happened, in fact. Another post for another time. Toodles.

To this post. Also to mobile home number 7 imminently …

 

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Not Just Moving. Moving a Mountain.

Have I got a story for you!

But not today. Haven’t the energy to dip into the waters 48 hours old.

Frankly, I haven’t the energy for anything! Just going into the kitchen to brew coffee took effort.

I am crashing. Truly exhausted, worn out and fatigued by incredible ongoing non-stop hard work and labors with this move.

I’m not done yet! In two days — Wednesday, Aug. 31 —  I must be out. My time’s very valuable and limited for tomorrow and Wednesday I work 4 p.m. to midnight. Actually, I’m filling in for someone on my final Vacate Day — for extra pressure, reduced move time. Bad timing! 🙂

Anyway.

I have moved a mountain.

Yes, such is the depth and extent of this move, its requirements, umpteen tasks, etc. etc. and etc.

It’s hardest move I’ve ever made! Quite the statement from someone who’s moved like 54, 55 times. It’s been even harder than the move from Japan! Which trust me was no piece of cake — reducing your life into basically two boxes and one duffel bag!

Anyway. There it is. And here I am.

I’ve moved a mountain.

On sheer will. Force of will and pumping adrenaline.

I can’t but think of Genghis Khan. The embodiment of will. Intelligence and strategy too comprised a genius that reshaped Eurasia. My father (and paternal side) it turns out is genetically related to Khan. If you knew my dad, this would surprise you Not At All!

There’s tremendous will in this 5-foot-2 petite body of mine. Causes me to wonder  how much of it is me alone and how much is ancestral! I certainly feel it in my nomadic bent (to put it lightly!) and passionate need for mobility. Off the charts!

Anyway. I digress.

Or do I?

I moved a mountain on will. I also moved it because it had to be done. When there’s work to do, I’m your girl. Your small girl, true, but ohhhhhh the will and strength within! It’s downright frightening!

Enormous unreal supra-human will that can be directed to creation or to destruction.

I know this about myself.

THIS time – for this move — that will’s been used for good. Getting out of a place — either by it vomiting me out or I it, food for thought — and into a way station.

Using my will to destroy, to undo, to raze what I’ve built or have been in the process of building — that comes easily to me. Too easily.

Using my will to create positive — that is a life lesson / teaching / mission.

THIS move, this particular and unique move — the Move of August 2016 — it’s taken more out of me than any move has. Yet I feel the GOOD of it too. The accomplishment. The gratification of Truly Hard Work unceasing.

I love to work.

And that’s why moving, For All Its Labors, suits me. My temperament. My fundamental Need to Work.

Laziness: Ain’t for Me!

Tell THAT to a modern American! Motto: Gimme Gimme Gimme! I’m Entitled Entitled Entitled.

Fuck that!

Speaking of moving. Time stamp: 11:04 a.m. Monday. I best get moving. Today’s chunk of free time is the last before departure in some 48 hours. No dilly-dallying! No succumbing to exhaustion. No letting the muscles liquify!

Move that mountain! A moment to acknowledge and thank my ancestors, my tribe. I feel your presence and from you draw strength.

The unwelcomed house residents: mold

Y’all’ve been there. Y’all all recognize it when walking into a house with it

That musty smell. The smell of molds.

Molds are living organisms. They float through the air and reproduce by means of tiny spores invisible to the eye. They thrive on dampness and moisture.

That moisture could be in or behind walls, in carpet or carpet pads, in unsuspected locations like basements or a corner in a room once saturated through a leak in a roof.

Molds can enter through doorways, windows, vents, heating/cooling systems, around leaks in windows, pipes, roofs.

They’re stubborn and versatile little devils too. Molds grow well on cardboard and paper products, ceiling tiles, wood, clothing, shoes, in paint, wallpaper, insulation drywall, fabrics such curtains and furniture.

Pretty much any place in the home is susceptible when conditions — namely dampness — for reproduction are right.

Why the heck am I writing about molds?!

My new place has ’em. They’re noticeable the minute you enter. That musty wet carpet wet dog smell.

Except there is no dog!

What there is is carpet. Worn rust-brown shag carpet through the front room and hallway, tan plush carpet — the nondescript sort typical in apartments — in the bedrooms. Only the kitchen and bathrooms have linoleum flooring.

The smell permeates, even with the front door open for circulation.

Unfortunately, molds are about more than an unpleasant even reeking odor. They carry health risks and danger, particularly to those with vulnerable or compromised respiratory issues.

They can trigger allergic reactions like runny nose, red eyes, sneezing, rashes; to a worser extent, breathing difficulties, asthmas attacks, bronchial and lung issues.

Molds aren’t to be ignored or endured. They’re to be eradicated.

Question is: How?

Ah, the $10 million question!

They’re umpteen suggestions, ways, products to remove and prevent mold in homes, depending on the situation.

In my case, as a renter of a room in another’s home, I can only do so much — or little. Ripping out the carpet and replacing with hardwood flooring throughout — not an option! haha

Yet here’s the rub.

My primary vulnerability is the lungs. Respiratory issues. Dating back to 1975 when I was hospitalized with pneumonia. Followed a decade later by severe bronchitis, from which I never recovered. Two interesting stories, those.

That’s not the point. Point is: the respiratory system is my greatest weakness and susceptibility to harm. In fact, I’ve not had a common cold for decades!! It goes straight into bronchitis! (or worse)

So.

My concern about the molds and more importantly how to deal with them or reduce them — since I can’t obviously eliminate them in another’s house — lost me half a night’s sleep. Rampant insomnia (again). At 4 a.m., I finally caved. “Can’t take another sleepless night! In the final stretch of a big move, can’t AFFORD one more night in of the mountain of sleepless nights!” Rolled outta bed to down a sleeping pill.

So.

Molds. Spent last night researching non-toxic and low-cost approaches to mold reduction. Whether they’ll work remains to be seen. But I have to try them while respecting this one key fact: It’s not my home, it’s his. And yes, the owner/roommate notices the smell too.

So hopefully he’l appreciate rather than knock me down for my initiative and effort to address a very real problem. A stinking problem. A problem risky to health — even to those without respiratory vulnerability.

I’ve lived in damp environments. The cost to my health and well-being were irreparable.

I’d be lying if I wrote that I’m unconcerned. La-de-da. Whatever. It’s just molds. {shrugs shoulders} Live and let live. Laissez faire is denial or laziness in disguise.

I took yesterday off to give the muscles much-needed rest and recovery from heavy lifting the day before. Today I’m back in the game. Today’s goal: Get everything but the barest minimum (i.e., teakettle!) out and into the next space.

So I best get on it! Perhaps with a respiratory mask! hahah {?} Adios.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mission Accomplished! Mostly.

It’s done! Mostly.

All the furniture, excepting this futon on the floor minus its frame, plus boxes and (too many) boxes of things are vacated. Apart from a few pieces that went  into my rental room, everything’s now in a storage unit. I’ll write about that another day.

Everything in yesterday’s move went swimmingly. The U-Haul truck — 20 foot no less! They didn’t have my requested 14-footer so gave me the 20-footer for the same price. The drive. The arrival of two moving dudes. The loading. The transport.

Only glitch was the unloading into the storage unit, which I did singlehandedly. A monsoon. A torrential downpour of thick balls of water and hail bouncing everywhichway. Of course! Just my luck! haha. Of course! Proving the weather forecasters wrong ah-gain. Nothing new under that sun! no pun intended.

Anyhow, the monsoon had me scurrying to get possessions, already wetted by the deluge, safely under cover and dried with a towel borrowed from the storage unit guy.

Then standing around waiting it out — losing precious time as I needed the task finished and truck returned before work.

Fortunately the storm passed and everything got done before my shift.

What a load off! For now. 😉

C ‘n’ C

To C&C — Celebrate ‘n’ Chill — how long has it been since I’ve done that?!? — I went out drinking at my favorite saloon on Whiskey Row. To show I meant business in Celebration and Chilling, after a Guinness, I ramped it up with rye whiskey cocktails. Note the “s.” 🙂

I didn’t stumble out or anything. I’m mindful of drinking and driving and not pushing that envelope. But the edge was definitely smoothed and the relaxation and interaction with other human beings sorely needed. (Note: I spend faaaar too much time isolated even when not busy shouldering moving tasks. Sad but true.)

Back home, with liquor coursing in my veins, I also ramped up the herbal sleeping aid to better my chance of sleeping. Severe chronic sleep deficit remains an ongoing issue (four years and growing); however, it’s really intensified these past few month/s due to domestic stress.

Mission accomplished, sort of. I slept soundly for some hours but still awoke a few hours too early.

Sweet Sleep, Where Art Thou? It’ll be interesting to see whether things improve in the next place.

Liquid Legs

Today I feel liquidy, rubbery. The outcome of beaucoup heavy lifting, excessive taxing demand on muscles and the aftereffects of alcohol and sleeping aids. Ain’t feeling bad, mind you! But ain’t a Get-Up-and-Go feeling either! And there’s plenty left to do yet! Things to pack and move. Spaces to clear out and clean. Etc. etc.

My enthusiasm level: 0.

How useful would be self-cloning!

Fatigue & Gratitude

In this deep pervasive fatigue, weariness of moving, waning enthusiasm for moving so fucking much (to illustrate, this is my 5th move in 2-1/2 years in this town alone), I’m relieved it’s over, almost.

I’m grateful for the help.

The two moving dudes. The new roommate. The nice lady at U-Haul. Even Mother Nature, who turned off the faucet of monsoons so that I might move in dry conditions (mostly). The saloon bartender who pours generously for his regulars {raises hand} :-).

I’ve written it before but it bears repeating: I’m grateful to have a place to go, a shelter, a room in another’s home in this transition. Homelessness was a real possibility. In the 11th hour, this room share was offered. The alternatives (i.e., another round of homelessness) weren’t, you know, good or desirable.

Especially for a working girl about to start a second PT job! The importance of showering regularly cannot be understated when you have a job (or two).

I’m grateful for a storage unit! Not easy to secure in this market where demand exceeds supply. And that I got my stuff in. It was challenging. It was close. Very close. Too close for comfort.

My muscles are chanting in chorus: No more! No more! Give us a day of rest! Give us a break! We need rest too! Like your mind!

So to respect their voices, I’m gonna take it easy today. Rest up a bit before hitting the home stretch hard tomorrow.

But I’ll admit: It’s VERRRRRRY hard to sit still or do little with so much left to do! With tons of tasks still staring me in the face as I scan my mostly-empty space.

I need WA — Workaholics Anonymous — for sure!

Guess that’ll do for today. Toodles.

It’s official. He’s the Jerk of the Park.

It’s 51 degrees (26 C) degrees and cloudy.

Raise your hand if you’d be using your air conditioner.

He’s back at it. After a blip on the radar screen of switching off that noisy monstrosity  of his evaporative cooler in these cooler monsoon days and even cooler nights, James is back to running it constantly. Day and night. And for extended absences.

It’s hard to miss the noise of that mother-ing monstrosity! It’s loud because it needs repairs, which the landlord refused to do.

It’s hard to miss that hunka metal the size of a VW bug for midgets because it faces half my home and most of my windows — including the bedroom’s.

Tight quarters inmobile home parks.You have to consider your neighbors!

Or not.

Then you’re the Jerk of the Park. Meet James.

Places I’ve lived often get a moniker. Something short ‘n’ sweet that summarizes the experience for better or worse. Usually it captures something significant or particularly memorable about a person — a neighbor or a roommate.

After three months of truly inconsiderate behavior  and plenty of chances to be otherwise, he’s proven himself to be a bad neighbor. It’s official. He earned the title. He’s the Jerk of the Park.

Whywhywhy is he running that cooler in the rain?! In these monsoons?! When it’s fucking 51 degrees outside?!?

He’s negligent, forgetful, young, too busy to care, doesn’t care — some of each perhaps. I get all that. We’ve addressed this issue. The constant sound and unnecessary use of his cooler. He promised to rectify the situation. He didn’t. Promised to be a better neighbor. He hasn’t been.

For months I’ve bemused that he’d finally turn that thing off and KEEP IT OFF only when there’s a blizzard.

Lordie I hate being right sometimes!

Though I’m moving most of my things today — off to pick up the U-Haul truck momentarily — I’m actually still here ’til Wednesday. Seven days.

Seven more days of James and his Giant Swamp Cooler. (Were that I could write Giant Peach instead!)

Seven more days of that high pitch (that serves to remind of the landlord’s denial of a problem and refusal to get it repaired) and roar. Night and day. Regardless of temperature and conditions.

Seven more days of the Jerk of the Park.

There are losses with this move and there are gains. I mourn the former and celebrate the latter.

On the whole, in the big picture, my leaving is a positive. A great thing even. A better class of people await.

And a better me too — for I do take lessons and teachings specific to this living situation with me.

A time of quietude will be very healing — and necessary — in the upcoming room rental (official move-in today).

I was about to write: I’ll miss having my own space. Then thought: But do I really?

The constant intrusiveness of  the neighbor’s noise tell me otherwise.

 

 

Muscling Up for the Move

Now 24 hours away on the button.

The U-Haul rental. Two guy helpers. The move.

Most of what I have gets moved tomorrow, followed by little moves and cleanup for 5 days until the Aug. 31 final departure.

Insomnia struck again. I slept too little to know how I feel today – except tired. Frayed. Worn out. Tired of moving preparations. Worried about what’ll fit in my (little) rental bedroom.

Grateful for the space. To have been offered it and to George (roommate) to offer it. Fatigued and stressed though I be, knowing I have shelter cuts the worser stress of the potential alternative of homelessness. So I’m grateful in my fatigue. Soldiering onward as I do.

In the Home Stretch

Today, like every day for quite a while, is chockfull of Things to Do. Getting signed on with the storage unit. Carting a stack of pallets — they’re heavy — into storage to protect my things. Rearranging and tidying up stuff strewn around the house to clear the path for furniture moving mañana.

It’s a small mobile home so not a lot of places for stuff to go! Shove stuff to one wall to clear a path for X. Now restack same stuff  to that corner to clear a path for Y. The Dance of Stuff!

Stuff. Boy do I have stuff! Compared to most folks, I have very little. But to me who likes to travel light — ideally with only what my Subbie can hold — the minute I need a truck to move things, I’m overwhelmed and burdened on some level.

Not to suggest I don’t love my things! I do. All the more after a 15-year absence/separation. Furniture crafted by my dad is priceless. Photos of my life in Japan, including the love of my life. High school annuals and bound editions of the high school newspaper that I was on for 3 years. A coupla old laptops with tons of writing. Childhood photos.

I’m no packrat. Neither am I  sentimental for sentimentality’s sake, a common affliction among most Americans.

I am deeply selectively sentimental, however.

Every item I own gets scrutinized with every move — and there have been many! Like I said, this is around Move #55 but who’s counting?!? At 59, recollecting every place I’ve lived would be challenging!

Point is, meticulously sifting and scrutinizing and REALLY weighing the value of every item — it’s who I am, it’s what I do. I’ve also honed the skill through experience. I could teach people how to downsize. Or assist them.

Say It: Short

BTW, I’ll say it upfront: This move is temporary. For the short term. How long I’ll be in this room share and where I’ll go after it, who knows?!

I just know: Don’t get too settled. Stay light on your feet. Change is afoot! No word play intended.

Yeah, a truck and two dudes and lots of lifting … 24 hours away. No stopping this move now!

Feel like this space is vomiting me out. Or I’m vomiting it. What weird words to write!  Food for thought. Again, no word play intended.

Upheavals. A Way of Life. (:-( )

I’m in a mishmash mood.

Be Wrong. And Get Paid!

High noon. 61 degrees. (16 C.) Thunderstorms.

Further evidence that weathermen can’t be trusted. The 10+ drop in degrees in a day wasn’t forecast. Thunderstorms, can’t confirm one way or the other.

How nice to have a job where you can be wrong 95% of the time and STILL keep your job and STILL get paid — well!

Actually, such a job would be no boon to me! Would offend my impeccable work ethics and integrity and high standards at workplaces. But plenty of people would LOVE a job like that. Weather forecasting as a career. Look into it if being accurate and/or good at your job means diddly to you!

Wait! What’s that Sound?!

Quite a shock greeted me when I arose this morning. The sound of silence.

The swamp cooler next door was actually off! O-F-F! Quite the anomaly, that, and worthy of a blog mention.

As I’ve written, it’s been running 24/7 or pretty damn close for 3 months regardless of temperatures or weather conditions because the neighbor is forgetful, negligent, careless, unneighborly. Wouldn’t surprise if it takes a blizzard to jolt him into finally switching that fucking noisy monstrosity off!

It’s 61 degrees. Just because there’s ZERO need for the cooler to be on doesn’t mean it’d be off. If anyone’s gonna have it on in, it’s this neighbor. That he has it off is headline news! Well, subhead news more accurately.

Tick Tick Tick

Counting down to the move. Must vacate exactly a week from tomorrow. But due to my schedule , most of the move is 48 hours away. U-Haul truck rental, furniture, guys with muscles this Thursday.

I’ve sought to arrange according to the weather forecasts — specifically the monsoons. Moving in a downpour … not so fun and potentially dangerous if the ramp becomes a slip-n-slide.

What a fruitless endeavor that’s been! Damn forecasts keep changing — seemingly on an hourly basis — and then they prove to be wrong anyhow! Why even bother with weather.com?!? haha

Chaos. But Controlled.

Anywho. My home’s a picture of Controlled Chaos. I’ve moved so often — this is like Move #55 — I could practically do it in my sleep. Actually I couldn’t and wouldn’t. Point is, I’m that skilled, practiced, experienced. I’m more than the Moving Queen. I’m the Moving Master.

This move’s a bit different and thus challenging compared to others. Because not everything’s getting moved in one day. Some 99% of what I have is going into storage. The remainder’s going into my room (a roommate situation). Maybe. Won’t know until I see what fits and doesn’t fit in the room. So there’s this up-in-the-air quality in this particular move.

Further complicating is that I’ll remain in my old place  — including sleeping here — for another 6 days after the bulk of my stuff goes into storage.

In short, it’s move with 4 prongs. Which is harder than a full-sweep move. I should know. I’ve done this endlessly! Well, for 59 years (save 10 years of childhood in one house).

I could SO write a book on The Art of Moving. Packing. Donating. My anti-clutter nazi is alive and kicking. I could make a fortune on How to Live Like a Nomad. Subtitled: A Fucked-Up Nomad. (haha) A Nomad Nonetheless.

I don’t see it becoming a movie.

Roots

What are those? Wish I had me some. These constant upheavals are really taxing to this gal approaching 60. What would I give to have a home? A foundation? Stability? Security? A Sense of Place.

What would I give for all that goodness? What would I give UP for all that goodness? The stuff of contemplation.

Stuff to do. Toodles for now.

 

Moving Countdown: 9 Days

So often I’m right — and wish I wasn’t!

To illustrate. Rains and thick gray clouds passing. It’s 70 degrees F (21 C) outside.

Not exactly hot. Yet on — and on and on — runs the neighbor’s evaporative cooler.

Why?! It ain’t hot and he ain’t home!

Here’s why. He’s forgetful. Careless. Negligent.

This near-constant running of the cooler, 24-7 regardless of temperature, weather and despite long absences from home, began three months ago.

I observed his behavior  for a month. And predicted to no one: It’ll be winter — or late autumn when the weather turns cold — by the time he turns it off and keeps it off.

I stand by that prediction.

James hasn’t been a good neighbor. The reasons don’t matter (in terms of the public) any longer. I’m moving by month’s end.

This has been a move of tumult and turmoil — and trauma to some extent. I’ve shared the story in bits and pieces. Her refusal to get the neighbor’s cooler repaired.

The argument with the landlord over a gemstone she took from my yard. Her action wasn’t as cataclysmic as the series of pathetic lies she spewed before returning it — with blame assigned to her husband! Yet another lie. Classy.

My emotions have running full-tilt since June. For various reasons, I was very upset when notified that my lease, up at the end of this month, wasn’t being renewed. I appealed. The landlord said no. One of her favorite words.

After months of a storm, the waters are calming. The sun’s penetrating heavy gray clouds.

I see the good of moving. The gains. The positives that are transpiring and will continue once I’m out.

Not the least of which is physical surroundings unmarred by a rattling high-pitched noise from a swamp cooler that does not need to be on!

I keep having this thought. I’m moving toward a better class of people.

Sounds haughty. Don’t mean it to. Neither am I suggesting that my landlord or neighbor(s) are bad people. They’re not. They’re not gangsta or gangsta-wannabes, like my prior neighbor!

They’re not thieves, drug-dealers or Entitlers demanding the government take care of ’em while lifting nothing but their lazy asses off their couches to grab another bag of chips from the kitchen. The New Modern American. (Work ethic, what the fuck’s that?!?)

Just saying … James with the Noisemaking Montrosity hasn’t been a good neighbor. The landlord hasn’t fulfilled her legal responsibilities. And neighbor Mark didn’t follow through on something that might’ve changed the outcome in this whole mess.

A better class of people await in my next domestic situation (a rental room in a gentleman’s house).

This post began with the neighbor’s swamp cooler running on a cool cloudy day, unnecessarily and wastefully. Circling back, it’s symptomatic of what ails, and has ailed, my stay here for the past three months. People not doing the right thing. People not being considerate, kind, helpful or even courteous.

I let this situation serve as a mirror and reminder of how I too can be more considerate, kind, helpful or even courteous.

On an amusing closing note, I predicted months ago that James would run his cooler unnecessarily and wastefully until the cold season. Then and only then would he finally keep that fucking monstrosity off.

My prediction’s proving right. I’d rather be right than wrong. But then, I’d also rather have a good neighbor than a bad one.

Yes, time to go, onward & upward …

Gratitude in the Upheavals

It’s happening, it’s all happening.

The move. Number 54 or so but who can keep count? Ain’t for nuthin’ I’m called the Moving Queen!

August: Arrrrrrghhhhhhh!

It was brutal. No relation to summer heat.

For various reasons, including a dearth of housing for both single living, i.e., studios, or room shares. Had nothing come through by this Sunday, Aug. 21, I had (emergency) Plan C, D & E gestating in my mind. All of which included putting everything into storage.

WHICH, I discovered, is a great business to get into in Prescott! Huge demand! Insufficient supply! If anyone needs a start-up idea, self-storage is it! You won’t hurt for customers.

Turns out, I’m going the storage route. But I jump ahead.

God Bless George!

I was one of two candidates he really liked for his rental room in his home. Another phone call, more questions, more answers and he opted to go with me! “You need it more, I think,” he commented. The other lady’s living at home with her folks.

He’s right. Without the room, I was looking at homelessness (again) or a modified version thereof. It’s kind of George to recognize, acknowledge and act on that observation.

And an observation it was; I’d said nothing on the matter upon meeting him and the room.

I’m so grateful:

• that someone had my back in some way or fashion. Am accustomed to that and it is … comforting.
• I’m so grateful that he’s opening his home in this time of need.
• I’m so grateful to be provided:
• a room in a safe, clean and nice home during this transition.
• a room that’s affordable, offers a space for my own bed, clothes, shoes, other simple basics …
• a room with a shower and a kitchen where I can feed myself, boil water for my beloved morning coffee. A room with quietude, privacy and Internet!

All the basics in this transition are covered.

On a personal note, it’s because I have been homeless — really, there are 25 articles at least waiting to be written, yearning to be heard! — and lived that hardship that I appreciate: shelter. a shower. water boiled on a stove instead of a little single propane burner with its flame flickering in the wind.

Everything else not essential in a room-share situation … goes into storage.

Speaking of Storage

I’m so lucky I found a self-storage space! Like I said, demand here is high and units scarce.

My unit comes with a blemish. There’s a leak. The owner can’t determine exactly where, only that rainwater sometimes runs down the back wall and puddles {here}.

Hence whatever I store there will be boxes, not valuable furniture,  put on a pallet and protected well with a tarp. A doable workaround in exchange for space for my things and a slight storage discount due to the leak. Yes!

Oh Ye of Little Faith

I admit, my f-word isn’t four letters, it’s five! Developing faith. It’s a lifelong lesson, mission, a significant player in my story.

As I dismantle my current home, move stuff out, declutter where I can and simplify — a process I undertake routinely, not just for relocations — I pause to reflect on the madness of the past few months.

And madness it was! This move was unplanned, unexpected, a tumultous whoosh of a wind moving me up and out after an argument with the landlord …

I’ve much to contemplate after the move

I’ve much to be grateful for. A room in a house with a gentleman who I sense is kind, direct, honest, fair and good. I like that!

Changes are ahead. They lie in wait. This room-share is temporary, like the new PT job I’m soon to begin. (Another post!)

Everything happened … so fast! Intensely. It’ll take a while to make sense of it all. In this moment, with tons of work still ahead for this move, I’m grateful:

to be safe after the whirlwind

to have shelter waiting … water, a bed, the means to prepare food

a second job (income) waiting in early September

Things I needed, fundamentally, came to be. In the 11th hour perhaps but arrive they did! Things worked out, despite the terrors and trains wrecks in my head. Which I’m learning to not do.

To every being up there and around me, protective guides, spirits, invisible presences and forces working in my favor (rather than against me): props to each of you for guiding, assisting, directing and helping in this time of tumult and turmoil. Bless you. The Light be of and with you.

Where Luna & Lifeline Collide

Today’s been weird.

One of those days that makes ya wonder whether there’s a full moon. Turns out … there is! Tomorrow! A partial eclipse no less!

At the Costco restroom, I arrive to apparently a rare long line. The reason’s revealed. It’s not a queue for the stalls.

Rather, a number of people gathered around a woman. Guesstimated age 50. Lying motionless on the floor.

A petite woman stretched supine between two stalls (partial, not full, stall walls). Head by the corner of the door. Long manicured sharp pink nails. Short gray hair.

Completely motionless. My first fear that she’s dead is quickly relieved by her elderly mother who’s talking to those gathered.

“She had a seizure. Jody. Jody. Can you hear me?” asks mom kneeling by her daughter. No response. Her breathing’s confirmed. “Her eyes are twitching,” mom says.

“She’s starting to come around. Jody? Jody? Can you hear me?”

Slowly, finally, Jody emerges from unconsciousness, eyes twitch open. “She’s coming back now. She hit her head.”

A Costco employee tells Jody she’s going to slowly move her at the hips to reposition her. Someone else wisely advises against it. “Wait for the paramedics. They’ve been called. They should handle it.”

Indeed.

“Water. I want water,” Jody says weakly. I return with two cups from the snack bar. By then, a half dozen paramedics are arrived. Grilling mom about her daughter’s medical history, former seizures, which includes epilepsy, medications and such.

A wheeled stretcher is raised by the stall. She’s in good hands. My cue to leave.

A human being lying motionless on a floor is an arresting event. Thank god it was happened in a safe environment and at a Costco. A better company and group of people is hard to find.

God bless Jody. Her mother and all who came to Jody’s aid.

Then 20 minutes later I’m driving along a downtown street. In the middle of the road sits a Lifeline vehicle — like the one just spotted at Costco — and a firetruck. Responding to another medical emergency.

In passing, I can but glance through parked cars to the curbside where the event — whatever it was — is winding down, based on unhurried actions of uniformed personnel. Won’t know unless it’s in the paper tomorrow.

I continue running errands, driving. Some 10 minutes, two more Lifeline medical response vehicles pass by separately.

That’s four in a day within an hour.

The fall at Costco, unknown incident on the street, sightings of two more unrelated medical vehicles just thereafter … all remind how fleeting life can be.

A weird day … where Luna & Lifeline meet.

Remember, full moon and partial eclipse tomorrow …