Moving

I noticed the labels first. Rows and rows of stick-on labels with words like: KITCHEN, LIVING ROOM, FRAGILE, BOOKS. And then of course the cardboard boxes, most of them still empty and piled flat on the floor, awaiting fulfillment of purpose in their not-yet-assembled state. And of course, I notice the floor itself, in newly bare swaths, chairs shoved aside, vacancies interspersed with clutter, some scent of old pages and dust. And baskets. My friends liked baskets, many still hanging above the sink and cupboards, others joining a collection of baskets in a corner for the taking. (I now own one.)

As for things to be taken, there is a pile of sundry items on the washer in the back: flashlights with dead batteries, plant food, laundry detergent, garden tools and gadgets, various objects of art or sort of art. In our own lives, the goal has lately been to let go of things, to streamline, rather than acquiring, but I succumb to the offer and abscond with a huge bottle of Woolite and a tiny flashlight that may or may not work. I stick around for most of the kitchen packing, amazed and discouraged by the sheer numbers of mugs and bowls and cookware and utensils that accumulate over the years. Now, every dish is wrapped with newspaper and bubble wrap for the long journey east, and I wonder how much of the stuff will be given away on the other end, but I recognize that some of these decisions are best deferred.

It's heartwarming to see the band of friends, mostly women, who have assembled here to help. Susie, in particular, assumes a leadership role, assigning everyone a specific domain and task. I am to be a “gopher”, which, as it turns out, is basically one who fetches things for others and carries packed boxes to the porch, but which, I soon realize, is the sort of job you give to a toddler to keep them occupied and out of the way when you aren’t really sure what to do with them. We are overstaffed.

And none of this explains the sadness and discombobulation I am feeling, the gnawing sense of vulnerability and anticipatory loss. Robin and Jim, our friends of more than thirty years, are moving from California to North Carolina to be near their kids and grandkids. It’s a wonderful and exciting change for them, an appropriate step into a new chapter of their lives, but it certainly prompts a great deal of emotion and reflection.

We were young together once…stupidly, obliviously young. We were busy with kids and work but somehow also managed to have fun in ways that would have demanded so much energy, effort, and time, I don’t know how we did it. There are snapshots of us on weekend women’s hikes…Big Sur, the Pinnacles, Guadalupe dunes…visual proof that we did these things, but the mystery of how remains unsolved. I suppose that’s the magic of being young. Nothing on us hurt in those days, and we were impossibly robust, and I guess we assumed we’d always feel that way, although we didn’t really think about it.

There were less grandiose endeavors too, just the day-to-day involvement in community, the shared experience of being in this time and place together. There were poetry nights and potlucks and writing group gatherings. There was Jim in his Land Cruiser (300,000 miles?) driving to the beach where Monte might already be surfing, and Robin and I were always pleased that they weren’t out alone. There were toyon seedlings and book club meetings, ballots to count and issues to discuss, old tales carried on the wind and new ones arising like the weather in each day. Jim and Robin were snugly woven into the vibrant tapestry of life here across the span of decades. It’s hard to picture it without them.

Now suddenly we are grandparents, and they are packing to move, and those of us with kids who live on the other side of the world are wishing we could do the same. We stand here, bewildered, in a changing landscape.

I left the moving scene after lunch in the garden, carrying my basket, the large jug of Woolite, and the flashlight I hope works. I turned to look back one more time at the humble little house, its contents in a jumble now, next occupants unknown, then went bumping along the rutted dusty road, marveling as always at the raggedy, rustic loveliness of this place I soon won’t visit anymore.

I had to head to a doctor’s appointment in Santa Barbara for my “annual wellness” visit. I did a fine job of drawing a clock with its hands at 8:20 and remembering three words, had some prescriptions and test results clarified, and was reminded that I’m “underweight” –-by which is meant that I lack muscle and need to build up strength. And yes, I do indeed have days when I feel discouraged and depressed. Doesn’t everyone? Look what’s happening out there. More candid than usual, my doctor confessed that she copes by not thinking about it. It is both the bane and the blessing of a retiree like me that I have ample time to think about it, which in turn implies some responsibility to act.

I’m doing my best. Only rarely do I succumb to the urge to retreat to bed in the middle of the day with the covers over my head. I did that once last week. But I think we need to acknowledge those feelings and capitulate to a time-out now and then, as long as we get back up.

One way I have tried to be of service is by tentatively stepping back into a teacher role. Brave but naïve, I spent an hour with a class of 7th and 8th graders at our local school yesterday to try to prompt some writing. A sea of glazed eyes looked through me. (I believe I have achieved invisibility!) I realize there were many understandable factors at play here, but I couldn’t seem to summon up the old magic. I guess I’ve lost my pedagogical flair; the classroom is no longer my realm.

And yet, I refuse to call it defeat. I know from experience that much of learning is retrospective and retroactive, and who can say what seeds may lie dormant and flower unexpectedly in the rain and sun of the future? Also, when I roamed around the room talking privately to kids, glimpsing pages that were often still blank, two one-on-one interactions lifted my spirits.  One girl told me that she had been given a chance to make pottery at this school, for the first time in her life, and she had discovered that she loves working with clay. And an 8th grade boy, who turned out to be so much more insecure and vulnerable than he appeared, shared that he had come here only recently and was moving back to the desert in two weeks, and I understood that he was in a strange, unsettled moment, neither here nor there, and perhaps his feelings were too daunting to write about. I had a chat with a diligent teacher, too, who was valiantly trying to bequeath her students a knowledge of the Constitution, and it seemed a bit late to start, but I respected her efforts, and I hope she will succeed.

I still believe there’s a middle school kid out there who will discover what a comfort and navigation tool writing can become. I’m sure that in the course of my career, I gave one or two a nudge in that direction. Maybe even now, a few of the kids will take their eyes off their screens, see the world, and put pen to paper, time traveling and documenting, exploring paths they had not known were there. Writing certainly helped me to get through when I was young. (It still does. Hence, this blog.)

It’s Saturday morning, and a fog has settled over the hills, and I’m breakfasting on leftover bakery cake and getting my bearings. Saturday used to be a delightful day, an anything-is-possible day, no school, no work, sky is the limit. Now I listen to Robert Hubbell’s weekly podcast, tend to chores and correspondence, check the calendar to see if I committed to something, get a walk in if I can, and try to write.

I’m still learning to how to live a life, and it doesn’t get any easier. Losses accrue, grief digs in until it is permanently lodged in your heart, and even the very framework of our nation, flawed and messy, but beautiful and aspirational, created to secure the blessings of liberty and justice…even that feels shaky now, and the most brazen lies masquerade as truth in the eyes of many.

Meanwhile, dear friends pack their things and move away, and all we can do is give them a hand, wish them well, and wonder why they had such a big bottle of Woolite.

I sound so sad, but sadness is just the other side of the joy and gratitude I am feeling. How many of us live in a loving community of friends who gather to wrap plates and pack boxes and sit beneath an arbor eating sandwiches and fruit salad served on a picnic table covered with a print cloth? The air smells like summer and rings with laughter. Our hearts are crammed more fully than those cardboard boxes, brimming with memories and love.

We travel lightly, after all, and in the light.