I have packed up the soul of my house. That is to say the books. The art. The accessories. All the things that make a house a home. I have patched the walls, sanded, and painted all the nail holes where my treasured windows into other places hung–even though my husband said I shouldn’t bother. I’m a nice person, and I think it’s fair to leave things nice (given the day I had yesterday, I’m inclined to change my mind, but it’s done now). My treasures are all in boxes now, in the back room, stacked neatly in a corner amid what is otherwise chaos. They got packed first because I don’t need them on a daily basis. Not like my laptop or my cookware. I can survive with my Nook since that’s loaded up with more than I could possibly read in the next month before we are supposed to move.
I feel like a stranger in my own home, caught in limbo in this strange world between here and gone–a place that makes me slightly crazy because I hate things in boxes, things out of place. It’s one of the reasons I despise moving. I’m completely out of sorts.
Add to that a naive buyer who…well I’m going to delete all of the vitriolic invective that I’ve been spewing since yesterday. I just finished reading the latest Black Dagger Brotherhood novel and spending that much time with the Brothers never does anything good for my language. Let’s just say she is being difficult and making an already stressful process considerably more so. It’s not cool to not be able to use my sanctuary during times of stress. It’s just not my sanctuary with all this stuff in boxes.
I know, I’m sounding like a broken record. But it’s a neurosis with me. Stuff in boxes means INSTABILITY and DISORDER and it mucks with my semi-OCD brain. In another few days I’ll develop a tick.
How do you find your zen if your sanctuary isn’t available?