Each room of the home we left was like a time capsule. Packing was the arduous process of sifting through years of "awww, we need to keep this" to "where did this come from?" There were trophies from every imaginable sport the children played, yearbooks they left behind, binders of school work and adorable writings from a child's perspective which commanded to be preserved.
And not one detail transpired with ease... not one. The refrigerator (delivered 3 weeks after move-in) doesn't work, and as we scramble every other day across town to our former home to make it ready for listing, the tasks are both overwhelming and difficult.
I long for a moment to pick up my knitting, stretch through a class of Pilates, enjoy some leisurely reading or journal my thoughts on my blog. Running to Target with my little guy for cleaning supplies and little things we need feels like a sinful pleasure.
This afternoon, I headed out for a half-hour guitar lesson... a guilty reward for the weeks of hard work, and time away from my instrument. Yet ten minutes into the compute for my lesson near our old house, I realized I hadn't placed my guitar on the seat next to me in the car. I called my husband to vent about just (really) how difficult the simplest of things have become. Finishing our call, the bluetooth in the car switched back to radio with Mandisa singing, "...He knows, that this is gonna make you stronger, stronger!" I smiled at the irony (irony?) of the timing.
I would love to say that the rest of the day ironed out just the way I would have loved for it to be, but this isn't a blog on fiction. Yet when the struggle was over, my husband brought home dinner, poured for me a glass of Pinot Noir, and gave me a moment to just sit and put my thoughts together...and this tiniest of minutes, just to pour myself out in my blog, has been the bit of medicine my heart needed.
...now, where did I unpack those knitting needles?