The thought occurred to me today that perhaps it was only the labor associated with moving that I hated, and perhaps if I had someone else doing all the work and hunting up all the boxes the thrill of a new adventure would override the turmoil.
No such luck, I'm afraid. I do like adventures. But at the end, I like to go home. And moving doesn't just mean changing homes; it means ripping apart one home and having to wait for another to be built.
Oh, I know, home is supposed to be about the people inside and not the place. Maybe it's because I lived in the same house for the first twenty-four years of my life, but for me, home must be the place, too. Not just the pictures, but that picture in that spot on that wall. Not just the people, but the ghosts of those people in years past.
Home changes over time, of course. It changes slowly and sporadically, like the people and relationships in it. Moving out is like ending one of those relationships. Suddenly all the forgotten promises and all the misguided actions come back to haunt me: the spot where I was going to put up a shelf, but never got around to it; the scrape on the wall where the chair bumped it; the wall I thought about painting, but didn't. There it all is, and instead of working things out with the house, I'm just walking out cold. Memories of failures in my earlier relationships come back to haunt me, too. I never did get the closets sorted in the other places, either.
There's the new house, all glamorous and waiting, of course. It is a nice thought. But I'm getting jaded. It has its flaws too--I can see them more quickly now. I know the work that will go into getting settled in. I know it will be months before it feels like home; before we finally get that bathroom wall painted and the towel rods up; before I find the right spot to keep things. I suspect I'll never get the closets sorted.
Add to this that my brain quickly overloads on decision-making and sorting; add the challenge of putting things in boxes faster than the ducklings can take them out; add fatigue and the need to keep everyone fed and clothed and napped while moving all the materials. Sorry, I tried. I still hate moving.
The good news is twofold: first, it will end someday; both this move and all moves. Someday, I will be Home. Second, I have angst to spare on my houses because I don't have any in my love life.