Here is a view of my study:
See what I mean?
I knew this moving thing (it's not Boxland -- but rather a small town a few miles west of Great Barrington) would be challenging. Some of my very good friends told me moving would be hell on earth. But still I wasn't prepared for this. I wasn't prepared to hear what my sister said the other day either: that this disorganization could go on for weeks.
Please say it isn't so!
We arrived here with something like 150 boxes. Insane, I know.
I suppose this is what happens when you move from an 11-room, three-story old farmhouse to a five-room modern dwelling. We have more than enough closets but they are already filled and still there are boxes and boxes and boxes and boxes, both here in my study and in the basement.
Don't get me wrong. I am deeply grateful for this beautiful house. Sometimes my husband and I look out to the meadow and we can't believe we are really here.
And clearly people move all the time. So it gets better.
One thing that concerns me, however, is that almost two years after my sister moved into her new home, she still has a huge number of boxes in the basement that she's never opened.
This is our basement:
I hope, no, I pray that we can see it empty some day soon!
Meanwhile, my friend Kellie asked me yesterday if I was writing. I told her that I've been away from this blog for almost two weeks, because of the move. I told her I felt like I couldn't write until I was "settled."
Ha! That could be a long long time.
Kellie reminded me how healing writing is. So in the middle of the night I started writing this post.
I am sitting at my mother's oak desk in my study.
I've carved out a sanctuary. I vow: this tiny space will remain cleared of everything except the laptop and the lamp.
So now, I can write again. Even if "my room of one's own" is a disaster, there is this oasis within total chaos.