Moving

When you turn most of your life upside down, don’t be surprised when the rest of it goes sliding down the ramp.

I’m moving. All of a sudden it seems. Old house out, new house on its way. Eventually. But first a stress sandwich with a side of panic. Endless hours of excitement, worry, and remorse and everyone’s nerves are frayed to a powder puff.

They say that moving is as stressful as a death or a divorce and I’d go so far as to say they’re probably more related than that.

It’s all about change. Change is a four letter word that’s six letters long just to screw with us.

Change seems to be the only constant in the universe. The delta of a mathematical equation, the crux of evolution, the one thing removed to make a perfect heavenly tableau. On the Christian God’s cloud garden, there is no aging, no death, no change. That’s how we see paradise.

But I digress.

I was bit by the change bug. After eleven years, a perfect storm of logic, emotion, and timing set me to sell my house without having another ready to take us. And it sold. And the factors that drove us to the decision have changed. Some by the whim of the punative universe, others possibly from the stress of the change itself.

The future is uncertain. It is full of change and changing change. And change—real change—is born in pain. And sometimes the pain is too much and to stop one ache, another will be endured. An amputated leg for a gangrenous toe. A new house for a stumbling relationship, a new god for a senseless death.

But I digress.

I’m moving.