To Move or Not To Move

Moving into a new house can be both a life-changing experience and a thrilling adventure. Each person is unique in how he or she deals with change. Some responses are healthy coping mechanisms, while others may prove detrimental to one's well-being. All I know is that the process of leaving one’s childhood home, and crossing over into the realm of a new one, is depressing at best, and daunting at worst. These are the times that test my inner strength, and I'm smart enough to know I'm powerless to change what's already been set in motion.  

Third-party observers might be oblivious to the conflicting emotions clashing within me. But inside, a storm rages on. Without a warning, I steel myself as a wave of nostalgia crashes over me, tossing me against the rocks and leaving me floating face up. All the while the memories created through the years and the secrets whispered wash up on shore briefly, their essence slowly merging with the sea. 

Packing has stirred memories I thought I'd buried miles and miles beneath the earth's surface. 

The ghost of memories past floats around the room, uncontrollably and recklessly, unwilling to absent itself and plunging into the conscious mind, where it plays a movie which I know all too well--life. (A room which bore witness to adolescent angst, raging hormones and baser emotions, now awaits a new occupant.) Lingering in this hormone-filled space is the formidable spirit of youth, engrained in the fabric of this perfectly imperfect abode.

The air is redolent of dirty laundry and dust. A bookshelf stands in the far corner of the room. A myriad of books sit on the shelves (most vampire fiction), their pages bent and frayed—a sign they have been read one too many times. Their covers battered and abused. A thin layer of dust covers almost every square inch of this dimly-lit cave, no matter how many times I dust and vacuum. (Clearly a mischief from the god of dust.)

The drawers of a single dresser are half open. Underwear and socks spill out of them. Deodorants, a brush, and sanitary napkins, along with an undergraduate course catalog and my class schedule, clutter the surface of the dresser. I've never bothered to arrange them neatly; I’m not as organized a person as I've led myself to think.

Today, I packed a decade of books into five boxes, careful not to damage their fragile exterior. A decade of memories, of tears and accomplishments trapped in a room that witnessed my leap from childhood to adulthood. I spent a decade memorizing the smallest details: the pink walls, the popcorn ceiling, the chipped paint. A cobweb dangling above my bed. The desk covered with textbooks and magazines. A lamp. More dust. A wooden door. 

I weaved through boxes, knowing that in a few days' time I would be starting life elsewhere. 

It suddenly occurred to me that I expected our residence to be permanent. Change was slung at me like a boulder from a catapult, and I can’t help feeling the brunt of the blow. It’s always been inevitable. 

There will always be more opportunities to create new memories, to collect the little shells that we carry with us always--wherever we go, whenever we go.