In uprooting myself from my living space of 9 years up in the trees, only to be living in transit in another, I feel weightless, like a tea leaf (Oolong, because it is too long) swirling in a teacup.
If you found that lead sentence messy, well, blame it on the mess I’m in now, which makes me too tired to clean it up.
Half my life is stowed away in boxes in a warehouse somewhere in the east, the other half—consisting of clothes, shoes, music books and needful miscellany, is now spilling out of cardboard boxes and suitcases in my replacement bedroom. The kitchen, once my fiefdom, is no longer my space. Ditto the dining and living room. Once a 2000 square feet aerie of light and air, my personal space has shrunk to a bedroom with an adjoining bath.
The old vanity that stands near the window still has a sticker on the glass. It reads: Follow me, I’m going metric.
In many ways, the move has relieved me of many of my stripes and duties; I no longer have command over a space of my own, of being the major domo in a household of five. Yet, boarding in someone else’s home is *such* a pleasant change because I no longer have to deal with unwashed dinner plates, unwashed clothes, the ironing, and endless tidying up. Also, imagine the time I save by NOT grocery shopping!
I could get used to this.