A friend, “Can you see the end of the tunnel?”
Me, “Yes, but through very squinty eyes. Moving is exhausting!”

If all goes according to plan (that’s an old phrase that is well to remember), within a week I’ll have successfully moved out of my home and into a new house (hopefully home).

That excerpt was from a quick conversation between two neighbors on a neighborhood street in a neighborhood that is either a suburban version of rural life, or a rural version of suburbia. It was late afternoon and both of us were weary from chores and dealing with obligations. We both also appreciated that weariness is normal in today’s world. Not complaining, simply mutual venting in camaraderie.

Maybe that’s healthy. Compared to most of the people on the planet, we are having good lives. We have the essentials, or at least those that are typical in the US. (We still lack universal health care and a societal safety net, but hey, some day we’ll catch up to the rest of the world.) And yet, responsible people readily fill their lives with helping others, or making difficult personal choices.

Selling a home involves an inordinate amount of paperwork. The seller typically has less to do, and yet, a few hours earlier, I signed about a dozen documents (or at least that many pages) to prove that I approved to sell my house to those buyers for this amount of money under these conditions. Pardon the euphamisms and pronouns but the specific nouns aren’t as important to my point as if their quantity and importance. Buyers have more to do, especially if they are using a mortgage. 

I so look forward to the simpler life of fewer entities involved in the essentials of my life. This is a first major step; with the next steps being at least a year away. Stay tuned for that.

A different friend (who also may be moving), “Are you looking forward to the move?”
Me, “Right now, I’m looking forward to sleeping in.”

For the last several weeks, almost every day has been either cleaning, clearing, decluttering, donating, recycling, or turning into refuse everything I own. And still, there’s an amazing amount to label, pack, and store – even if it is only temporary. Read I Thought I Was A Minimalist for more of that story. An update that is also a lesson is that, it hasn’t been until I am down to about a dozen boxes that I’m finally finding I’ve packed something too early. Two storage units are almost full of tools, unsold art inventory, history, and things like gifted art and books and reminders of friends. 

The paperwork challenges and fatigues the brain. The sorting and shipping and packing fatigues it too, but also stresses the physical. A friend who is getting ready to move (there seems to be a lot of that going on) made me realize it is easy to pack a hundred pounds of stuff every day. After twenty days, that’s more than a ton; and we’ve both been doing the same thing for several weeks. Unfortunately, dining on a U-Haul kind of day is not aerobic, hence I might have to buy new pants because I’ve eaten too many chicken strips and fries.

These reflections are based on what I am experiencing, mostly because I have fewer privacy concerns than some of my friends. And here’s the third element.

Take your pick between emotion and spirit, but that subjective sense of who a person is, is challenged by a move. Our identities are defined by where and how we live. Why is generally assumed based on convention. When is a given as we pass through phases in a life. 

Ultra-minimalists (those people who own fewer than 200 items) and people rich enough to hire out the brain work to lawyers and brokers, and the physical work to contractors and movers, both may skip the tests and trials.  Minimalists have practiced the exercise. With enough wealth, changing houses is more like changing hotels than changing homes.

How did we go from the mindset of nomads who can break camp in a few hours, whether it was tipis, tents, or yurts, and move with no paperwork or duct tape?

They asked about the light at the end of the tunnel. Skipping old jokes, I can finally see it from here, but it feels less like a promised land and more like the end of a marathon with the hope of a massage. Planning for the future comes later.

Layer on changes of address, keeping friends informed so friends can stay in contact, and continually wondering about paperwork, box limits, and existential queries leaves me amazed at everyone I helped buy and sell houses when I was a broker. It’s almost enough to convince me never to move again, or to move soon for practice but also a culling of boxes never opened and emotional chapters to leave in the past.

It’s earlier than usual on a Friday evening, but I’ve already napped enough to convince me that my body wants more recuperation before the next major push: emptying my home, filling the storage units, cleaning a house that is soon to be someone else’s, and peeking ahead at official address changes for me and my businesses.

(writers note: I try to always carry pen and paper to the point that some see it as odd. That first conversation above sparked a different title and content, but I didn’t write it down during time with a friend. I wonder what it was.)

To everyone who goes through similar trials, cheers. I’d toast you, but I think tonight’s a night for ibuprofen instead of alcohol. Good luck to all. Thanks for staying tuned. New chapters arriving daily. I’ll even write some of them down.