I'm flying solo tonight...no man, no dog. They are working on the ceiling project at the lake, while I stayed behind to pack. I enjoy my alone time. Time to decompress, be with myself--and yes, you can "be" with yourself (get your mind outta the gutter)--watch what I want, eat what I want, whatever my heart desires. I like hanging out with myself. It's called space and it's healthy. In fact, I think I prefer it.

Tonight, however, I'm feeling a little different. Packing. I hate it. Not the physical act of it, but the idea of putting all the things I have carefully and painstakingly selected to surround myself with over the years that represent my family, my friends, my life...in a box. A dark cold lonely place for who knows how long this time around.

Ever since the first time I moved, and maybe because of the first time I moved, I have disliked this process, no matter how much promise the next residence or city offers. I was 7 or 8 and I was leaving my family home after "the divorce". I have vivid memories of taking down the porcelain birthday angels and dolls from around the world that my grandparents had picked up on their retirement travels and crying, not understanding why we had to leave. It was awful. But at least I didn't grow up in Jersey.

Then, when we moved from Langhorne to Doylestown I was miserable because I was leaving my best (and only) friend, even though I only knew her for a year. Doylestown was then home, and the last home I lived in before I set out on my own. When my Mom decided to sell the house that I consider "where I grew up" I was devastated. I was in college at this point. Pathetic, I know.

Yes, I am a woman of home and hearth. It means the world to me. When it is unstable, I am unstable. I have a symbiotic relationship with my residences and the things that fill them. They are just physical places and stuff, but they keep me from the cold & rain, comfort me in my woes, and celebrate my successes simply by being there. 

So once again, I am packing up these things in this place--a place I hated for almost six months but of course am now sad to leave. So I'm melancholy. Just a little.
I know the next place these boxes rest will be mine & his together, and the first that's truly mine. It's wonderful to think of, as well as what promises to be enjoyable layover at the lake. But I will still think of the $8 vase I lugged back from Mexico that has completed my mantel for the past four years sitting in a box in a storage center in Powder Springs. Yes, it makes me sad.

Home is most definitely where my heart is, no matter how many there may be in life.


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