Why do we move? For most of us over 40, it’s because we have to. The landlord’s jacked the rent, or our small house can’t contain our growing family. A new job, or a new relationship. And sometimes, in the case of a few too many friends, marriages ending.
Mention moving to just about anybody, and the response is often a shudder. “Moving sucks.”
I have been in my apartment – the first floor of a two-family house – in bucolic Belmont, MA, for more than six years. I moved here from Los Angeles. I found the place on line, had a friend check it out, and lo and behold I was home. When I arrived, I thought I’d be here for a year or two, then I’d meet the right person and we’d buy ourselves a little bungalow somewhere.
Instead, I’m divorcing myself. And it feels really, really good.
I had been thinking about leaving this place, but couldn’t find a better set up than the one I had. Inertia had convinced me that I wasn’t going anywhere. Then a friend showed up at my door with a proposal. That we combine resources and get a place bigger than either one of us could have on our own. We started looking, and hit the jackpot on our second spin.
So, as I sit among boxes filled with belongings, debating about when to wrap up the dishes and cookware and convert to take out and paper plates, I am filled with joy.
Moving has been a regular part of my life. By the time I had completed high school in Chicago, I had attended 5 grammar schools, 2 junior high schools and lived at 7 different addresses in two major cities (Chicago and Miami). I moved to Boston to attend college, and like the rest of my friends, moved around steadily through my mid 20s – on campus, off campus, Allston, Brighton, Brookline, a brief domestic partnership in Belmont, an artist’s life in Somerville…and eventually out west, where, after a tumultuous first year, I landed in a West Hollywood apartment for about 5 years.
I chalked it up to gypsy blood.
But this move is different. This move finds me letting go of my past in a way other moves have not. While I’ve never been a pack rat, I’ve held onto stuff. Stuff I don’t need, stuff I don’t even necessarily like. Stuff that makes me think of other things. Of people, of times, of places that they represent. An odd collection of souvenirs from all my previous addresses.
When I was in high school (I only attended one high school, but moved during my senior year), my very sweet and very tall boyfriend fancied himself an audiophile. He had purchased a new stereo and was explaining its components to me. I was jealous. I was drooling. I had a job and I wanted a stereo, just like Michael’s.
He took me to United Audio in Chicago’s Lincoln Village, where a large, gregarious salesman extolled the virtues of a 22 watt per channel Sony analog receiver – the same one Michael had. There were two inputs – one for phono; one for tape. I’ll take it, along with turntable and speakers, please. (The tapedeck would come later, after a few more paychecks).
Then somebody invented CDs.
I had to upgrade, but I couldn’t bring myself to part with that Sony. I loved its silver case, its horizontal AM/FM dial. The little red preset lights. Its simple elegance. I told myself that one day I would use it again. As a radio, or I’d put in the basement and teach the kids about records and needles and flipsides.I sealed it in a box. I took it to LA. I brought it back.
Finally, I concluded that whether or not I ever get that rec room, it’s time for the Sony receiver to go. I made the guy on freecycle who wanted it promise me that he would take care of it. He did. Whether he does or not, isn’t my concern. We’re divorced. And it feels good.
Moving is a beautiful opportunity to take inventory, to think about what we have and what we need. What we like, and what we hang onto out of habit. It’s a chance to redefine, to restate, to prune, to rid ourselves of ballast and take control of our environment.
It’s so easy to accumulate, and so difficult to set free. Perhaps because we live in such lean times that excess feels excessive or perhaps as I get older, I’m less trapped by the trappings, and have changed my mind about what’s really important, and what is simply folly.
I kept Michael’s love letters.
Nobody says it better than this man. George Carlin – a place for your stuff
