Mooooving On

I’m moving. I’m moving for the first time in almost 4 years. I’m moving from the place that I’ve lived the longest in my entire life, other than my childhood home.

People move all the time. Heck, fellow dissident daughter Jill moves entire houses almost every year (Haha, sorry, J, I had to go there!) Indeed, I am only moving 5 blocks from my current apartment, so not much will change in terms of neighborhood, work commute, etc. However, for me, moving is a big deal. Let me explain.

I’ve written a ridiculous number of blog posts about my current apartment. Click HERE to read about my adventure in painting it from top to bottom. Click HERE to read about my final project this summer. You see, I write about my apartment often because it essentially became the most concrete symbol for ME and my journey. It was at this apartment that I would say that I REALLY grew up. I don’t mean to imply that I was not an adult prior to moving into this apartment, nor do I mean to suggest that I will stop growing once I leave. But it was THIS apartment where I had to confront some of the darkest forces of life, and those tend to age someone in a way that no other experience can. I moved here right after losing everything that I had once held so dear, and I was forced to embrace the ubiquitous snares of grief- the devastating loss of meaning, dreams, and faith.

My apartment became the most concrete symbol for this journey. I moved in, and the apartment had the ugliest green trim and carpet everywhere. I had almost no furniture, save for a 1980’s box TV and a futon that resembled a car seat more than a cozy place to relax. And for almost a year, the apartment remained stagnant because I didn’t have the energy, creativity, or desire to make it better. But slowly, I started to pour myself into the apartment. I started to find interesting secondhand pieces and fix them up. I bought new furniture. I started painting the ugly ass walls. And it became a self-perpetuating effect. The better I started to feel, the more I was able to give to fixing my apartment. And the more I fixed my apartment, the better I would feel because I felt pride in the work that I was doing.

I started to feel so proud of my work that I would tell everyone that I planned to stay in my apartment as long as I could- I would only move if 1) I got married; or 2) I suddenly decided to move out of state. But life just doesn’t work like that, and we are usually led to where we need to be, which is often different than what we expect. The signs start slow, and then they start to build until we finally get the clue.

This past August, I wrote this grandiose blog post about the meaning of finally painting over all of the green trim and feeling “finished.”  The VERY SAME day that I published that blog post, a mouse got into my apartment. It turned into a huge debacle (it’s a funny story, ask me if you want to know more!), and I briefly wondered if there was some sort of deeper symbolism to the fact that it happened on the same day that I published my blog post. I had just finished writing a post about my love for the apartment, and that same day, I started cursing my apartment because it failed me- it let in a disgusting rodent. However, I brushed those feelings aside. I found out that my neighbors had accidentally left their door open for over an hour, so of course a mouse got in. I let it go.

Let's be real- this is what my version of moving looks like. #clowncar

But over the course of the next couple of months, the signs kept coming. Someone ran into my lovely purple car in the middle of the night and left me to wake up to the damage.  Additionally, I found out that my landlord was selling my building, and the fate of what would happen to the building was uncertain. I also just started to feel different inside. The economical DIY upgrades that I had been sooo proud of started to just feel…temporary and unsustainable. Moreover, I started to feel less passion about upgrading the apartment in general because I had done everything I could as a tenant, and anything else would be a massive overhaul. I even started to resent vacuuming because even when the carpet was freshly vacuumed, it still looked nasty because the carpet was green and old and ugly. One Saturday in January, everything culminated together, and all of the sudden, I literally said out loud, “I’m ready to move. It’s time.”

It seems like it came out of nowhere- all of the sudden I just snapped to the realization that I wanted to move. But it really had been building for 5 months. God is funny like that- I think that we are often given clues about where we are being led, and they keep building and become louder until we are able to hear.

I’m so excited for my new place- it’s an upgrade to my current one, and it has a lot of old house charm with upgraded appliances. I knew as soon as I stepped into it that it was “home.” I had looked at a bajillion other places prior to this one, and I just knew that this one was right.

Because I’m so ready, my grief over leaving isn’t very intense (which is significant for someone that is ridiculously sensitive!) If anything, it feels more like…I’m leaving my grief behind. Not that you ever ‘get over’ grief, but I’ve integrated it as much as I can, and the rest of it is staying in my apartment. If anything…the feeling I feel most right now is fear. You see…after the turmoil and growth of the past 4 years…I’m now at one of the happiest phases of my life. I’m so content with the people in my life and the opportunities I’ve been given that I feel like I could burst. And because of that joy, I’m terrified. I am overly cognizant of the fact that I could lose any (or all) of these things, and it’s almost paralyzing.

I’m still not sure what to do with that fear- I think that may be my journey for my next apartment.

Until then, know that redemption and creation are real. And the best way to know what they are is to live it.