Moved the Mountain, then I Got the Broom

The mountain is moved.* Now begins the dust to settle.

*most arduous move in some 55 moves

Moving from a 1-bedroom mobile home with a backyard storage unit into a rental bedroom in another’s house has been no easy feat!

Once I got 99.2% of my possessions into storage — still that tale of a lifetime to tell! —  once THAT mountain was moved! — the next great challenge was how to artfully and effectively arrange too many furnishings ** and the basics of simple minimalist living into one very small bedroom and closets

** too many furnishings is element of storage unit story yet untold

Mine is a genius mind in spatial reasoning and geometry. Do NOT give me algebra, trigonometry or chemistry! Therein lay my dad’s mathematical genius, my son’s too. Thus if there are many parts to put together, compose, structure, build, assemble, coordinate toward the most effective and efficient use of space, I Am Your Girl!

Yup, I’m extremely good at tetras! (Have been asked many times!)

So if a buncha elements need to be arranged in the best possible order within spatial confines, constraints and parameters AND IF IT CAN BE HUMANELY DONE, I’m the one who can do it.

Four days after intensive labor, of arranging and rearranging shapes and objects, I’ve got my room in working and livable order.

Ditto the closets.

Ditto the kitchen — well, my portion of the refrigerator and cupboards.

I also — get ready — cleaned the floors of the entire house (minus the roommate’s bedroom and office, which is locked)!  Yet another tale waiting to be told. A tale beginning with a nasty 4-letter word: mold.

I am a workhorse from another planet!

I exhaust myself. Yet like that Duracell battery, I keep on ticking. I Get It Done. Whatever NEEDS getting done.

Some 12 years ago I had a boss who told me something I’ve never forgotten. His name was Lance. It was at an utterly Lame Crap shit job (one of dozens) hence the job had no relevance to me true self and Lance’s opinion meant nothing really. Still I remember to this day what he said.

“You’re a work machine.”

Now, most folks, pretending they even shared my work ethic and most don’t, would be offended by that.

I wasn’t. It was a compliment. A backhanded compliment. I do indeed habitually and too often work like a machine. (Unresolved father issues.) But I get the fucking job done! Like no other.

I’m a powerful  force trapped in a petite 5-2 female body!

Not tooting my own horn. Only telling it like it is.

The Force of Work is Within Me. The Force of Work IS Me. I may keel over from it one day! But at least it’ll be while getting something productive and necessary done!!

I can’t rest on my laurels just yet. There’s still stuff to do. Sweeping up the dust kinda stuff. Ain’t the same as pushing a 13,000-foot high mountain on one’s own strength and will!

My little bedroom is mostly in order. I’m relaxing with not one but two beers during the cocktail hour on the front porch of the house of George (my roommate, who happens to be away at the moment).

Ain’t nuthin’ like a good beer or killer cuppa joe after Hard Work into Infinity.

Hard Work: Where every fiber of your being, mind, body, muscle and tendon are engaged in and focused on one task. Or a thousand tasks.

Hard Work — truly Hard Work — requires complete commitment, focus, endurance, fortitude and survival skills.

Hard Work requires: Neutrality. Impersonalness. It requires putting yourself aside and all feelings about yourself aside to accomplish one goal and one goal only: Get The Job Done.

Even if you fucking hate it.

Even if you can’t lift one more muscle.

It was the Germans who said: “Arbeit Macht Frei.” Perhaps it’s partly my genetics that compel me so in my Workhood.

Whatever forces came into play, I Moved A Mountain.

And am enjoying tying up the loose ends and sweeping up the dust.

Because Every Iota of me is present in the work.

And THAT, my dear readers, is a Work Ethic in action!

Gratification unsurpassed.

Satisfaction unparalleled.

(Your mileage may differ; so does the mileage of my national compatriots who wouldn’t know the meaning of work ethics, never mind engage in any, to save their sorry lives!)

 

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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 …

 

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.

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.

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.

Write On! In the Whirlwind {whoosh}

When the going gets tough, the tough shut up. 

Who said that? I did!

When I’m struggling, I don’t talk. Worse, I don’t write! Not even in my journal. A writer who stops writing is a distress signal. A red flag.

Where HAVE I been?! Not here, that’s for certain! Some place deep in isolation.

It’d sound more poetic if I could write “some place deep in contemplative silence. Like a monk.” There’s an aspect of that, true. But really, when I stop talking, writing, when I disappear, it’s not good. Or healthy.

I’m not here to wax reflective on essentially “going mute and why.” I’m here to share! To write. To speak. Yahoo! Shall I get to it?!

Wow of a Whirlwind!

How fast things can change! Might be changing!

August 11. In 20 days, I must be out of my space (a rental mobile home).

Fast backstory: the landlord and I had an argument. She didn’t renew my lease, up on Aug. 31. I appealed. She said no.

I must be out in three weeks. And I don’t know where I’m going!

Don’t know whether I’m staying in Prescott or leaving for Phoenix.

I don’t know whether I’m adding probably a dishwashing or food-service job — another menial low-pay Lame Crap Job (LCJ) to my life and resume — interviews today and tomorrow.

Or to be writing features full-time for a giant media company in metro Phoenix — 25 steps up in life, work, income, purposeful direction, self-esteem!

How do I, a person of scant faith — and working on it! — remain this calm? Zen in the eye of the storm?

Answer: Been there* done that before. Many many many times before. Since infancy.

*there = here … that = this

I’ve always lived in chaos, courtesy of mom and dad! On the verge of life collapse. In upheaval. Guttural upheaval. I don’t know security. Have never had it. Don’t know what it feels like.

What I do know is the world collapsing. Crumbling down into dust. And surviving.

Eye of the storm.

Tickticktick (Not that Insect)

Tickticktick sounds the clock. 20 days. No idea where I’m going! If I think about it, I might freak out! Is this Zen in the storm a self-defense? Denial?

Or is it my form of faith? That trust in Been There (Here) Done That (This) before — many MANY times before. Okay, all-my-life before! 🙂

I could easily put an astrological spin on this. And I might. I should. In another post. Even an article for an astrology magazine.

Not today though. Not now.

Needed today are two things:

• Packing. To include a major whittling down of things.

The things you own own you.

Who said that (originally)? Not I! Still Oh. So. True!

• Interview. Must take care not to get so focused and engrossed in packing — badly-needed task it be — to forget that I’m to be at a campus at 1 o’clock to meet a lady about a dishwashing job.

Be still my heart!

Maybe not.

In a Nutshell

The truth, the gist of this overall situation:

I must move. Must be out precisely three weeks from now.

I must change homes whether I want to or not.

I am absolutely open to leaving Prescott, town that I love, that is “home.”

I’m more than open to a radical change in my life — in work, income, self-esteem! I’m desiring it!

I want to move because I want to grow.

I want to grow because my old ways — old habits, thinking, certain ways of living even — have become tiresome. Even to me! Who for better or worse — usually worse — likes to stubbornly cling to old ways for familiarity and a sense of security. A false sense of security.

Still, I like my comfort zones too much and to my detriment. Even when my comfort zones don’t like me! Even when they themselves want to be shed!

Now’s the time and here’s the place.

Who said that?! Why, I did!

As unpacking proceeds, so goes the universe

Box by box … the contents come out to breathe.

Item by item … each has its place and finds its place. Perhaps not immediately but eventually.

Sometimes it takes living in a space to uncover an item’s natural place. It’s an organic process.

Everything has a place and everything in its place. As I’ve oft said, the adage I would’ve written had someone not beaten me to it.

I’m as organized in my packing as my unpacking. Organized, mindful, precise, meticulous. Things aren’t tossed willy-nilly into boxes. My packing reflects an orderliness, a logic, a thoughtfulness, a gift at creating systems. Dare I say a method to my madness?!

Good packing is an engineering feat.

I have the gifts.

The paternal grandfather I didn’t know was reportedly a civil engineer for the Navy. My father was also extremely skillful at crafting systems. My son’s a software engineering genius. It’s in the genes, this aptitude for engineering systems on foundations of intelligence, reason, logic and a capacity to see the whole as well as the details.

In a culture utterly lacking in critical thought anymore, these are gifts indeed!

Unlike my father and son, whose engineering strengths are in numbers, mine’s in geometry and spatial reasoning. In high school, I didn’t much care for algebra and trigonometry. But I looooooooved geometry! It came easily and naturally.

Of course I’ve forgotten everything I learned back then! But I harbor a secret hope of one day taking a geometry class again. Or physics.

Point is: You can take the girl outta geometry but you can’t take the geometry outta the girl.

It’s reflected in my packing and unpacking. Items having their place and finding their place — naturally.

In a sense, I let them tell me where they go.

Not to suggest I’m brainless through the process! Unpacking — setting up a new space — is an organic process. Very much so!

Things finding their place is the universe in motion. There’s an intrinsic harmony and flow between all elements. They seek and will find their natural order — if we don’t interfere, get in our own way or theirs!

I’ve got my work cut out today.

It’s my one fully free day. Tomorrow I resume my job/work routine. Boxes neatly stacked to my right need to be emptied or moved to their rightful place in my little storage shed.

Even if things aren’t immediately put in their right place, getting them into the ballpark’s a worthy accomplishment this early in the move. Not yet even 48 hours!

I’m between two worlds.

One foot’s in the old world with the bad neighbors — a story of dissonance and despair.

And one foot’s in this new world that has no storyline. No known storyline, that is.

It’s wonderful to sit at my laptop at my Caribbean blue bistro table with coffee and enjoy this moment: of being here (and not there) with a story, unknown, to unfold.

Kinda like the contents of these boxes! They’ll emerge and find their place like the words of that future story.

Nice.