The most unflattering photo of me got on the front page of a local newspaper this week because I went out to get pancakes on Shrove Tuesday. After I emailed the pic to my parents, Dad responded: "We glad for your picture. Are you a little fat. Have you moved yet. You should learn how to drive before that BUS strike." Siiiiiiiigh.
Moving, eek! As I pack, my flat becomes more and more unhomely. Objects tie you to the place you inhabit, because you develop certain habits and living patterns around these things. Now this connection to my home becomes steadily eroded, as clothes, books, egg cups, etc. migrate into boxes stacked against a wall. No more bestrewn with little outer expressions of the self, the closets, shelves, and tabletops lose their reassuring familiarity. My home of nearly 7 years no longer feels like a shelter for daydreams and private musing. However, walking around the airier rooms, I feel the pull of the future, the call of the door toward the outside world. The present is no longer cluttered with pain and desire and regret, the fallout from poor or weird choices. The windows open out onto a familiar view, but the interior of the self feels capacious, inviting possibility. It's the feeling I get when I start a new chapter, or when I visit a library and see shelves upon shelves of books full of lives I might greet.