Moving

One deep breath……….. away from tears.

I feel it deep down in my belly, the aching, bilious retching of release  – helpless denial in the face of “Oh God! …that fish was bad, before this is all over, I’m going to have to vomit. I can distract myself all I want but there’s only one way out of this…vomit!!!!”   The water still running, standing before a sink full of last night’s dishes, I am on the verge of a violent regurgitation of  tears.

img_6402I’M MOVING!!!!!!!.  Oh God….Moving is so cussing hard. Everything in me is screaming, “Stop! Help me! Where am I? I don’t know where I am! Where am I going? What am I doing?” My world is completely upside down with what feels like no solid ground on which to stand, And what’s worse ….now I can actually feel my skin breaking out, my hair graying,  my nails splitting, and I suddenly have NO eye lashes!!! I am so freaking tired, I don’t even call it tired anymore. And did I also mention scared? Just this inexplicable unexplainable sense of really really scared, that I suppose is just attached to ….change.

It’s a gorgeous day here in southern California. The morning mist rising off the hills,  a beautiful woman lazily lifting white angora over soft ample breasts,  baring her tips to be  kissed by the sun.  Breathing in the clean dewy dampness of the day, I returned again to my first winter here. Landed fresh and oh so tightly wound from New York, a city girl to the bone, skin toughened by the 20 years spent surviving winters in the city of grays. Walking past the huddle of gray men in dark corners, exchanging gray words and passing gray matter, the ashen sky said hurry now, hurry before the snow. Waiting on cold subway platforms behind veiled eyes, I’d dream a dream of warmth and light and lovely. I moved to California that final winter with a suitcase in one hand and my cat in the other, after walking past a man at 2 o’clock in the afternoon on the corner of 50th and 9th sitting over a garbage can taking a dump while reading the NY Times.

I live here now, where the winter sun paints the sky red and pink and purple before melting into a turquoise sea. I snuggle into cozy sweaters sipping hot chocolate in front of blazing fires on decks and patios. And when someone casually remarks  “oooo it’s cold tonight” I think “yeah it cold alright, but it’s California cold y’all. It ain’t that evil bitchin’  belly stabbing soul shrinking New York cold. This is not cold!!” No. I love living in California. And here I am for some 25 years, having borne my share of love and loss, standing at the door of a Second Chance. I am moving into a new house that literally makes my heart sing.

A melon colored beauty high on a hill with all the promise of love and life and hope under one roof, sanctioned by man and God,  spirits long gone and those yet to come. The respite at the end of a long, hard journey, it is my heart’s desire and I thank God for it. Yet this day I want to weep and bawl and howl to high heaven. Moving is really hard.

The new house is not yet ready. It has to be secured for our animals. There are coyotes and bobcats and eagles and owls and hawks and snakes and spiders the size of my hand. The rooms were painted ox blood and mustard and green , and beige and a really poopy brown. Yep, that’s being repainted. Then there’s servicing the well. Yes this Brooklyn girl now has a “well”!  And the  broken windows, and ADT, and installing excessive male porn for Mr T, aka Audio Visuals. Mr T wants speakers everywhere. I think there’ll be speakers in the toilet bowl meant to enhance the sound of his midnight pee. He has gone speaker crazy.  Listen…I am fine with that, as well as the big TV, the really huge TV and the “you’re kidding right” TV!!!! All concessions because, let me tell ya, there ain’t NO TV in the bedroom. Hell no. (Ladies, get it out. It is death to your sex life.) So while we’re waiting to get things installed,  torn down, built up, and repainted, I have now moved us into three different B&Bs. Why so many? Don’t ask. Bottom line is yes these are indeed “high class problems” as my mother would say,  and she would be correct. But for me, the ultimate nester….. me,  if I stand still too long I sprout roots….me who travels with my own pillows and tablecloths and candles and pots. Me not being home is really hard. I’m just saying.  “Fuck!” It’s hard.img_6384a

Last night, the first round of  furniture was loaded into the half of the house that is ready. Today my back is paying the price, but I gotta tell you…..(sighhhh) I got my first glimpse of Lovely.  And today….that will do. There’s more to come.

A little Lovely, goes a long way.

2 Comments
  1. Ms. Toussaint, I am so happy that you and your family are in the final stages of moving. I hope you all enjoy your new home once you get it the way you desire aesthetically.

    Your post reminds me of the “dread” I am looking forward to and hating at the same time. The dread of packing up my life again and moving. I am excited to move to a new place but I just can’t bring myself to pack. I moved back home in 2014 and my things have been taking up residence in my father’s storage unit. I have boxes and papers that have become my roommate at my grandmother’s house. These are boxes filled with items that no longer serve a purpose in my life. However, I continue to hold on to them afraid to let go of the past. Afraid to let go of the hopes and dreams that I didn’t achieve. I have moved so many times before that the thought of going through my things exhausts my mind. I want to just throw everything away and start over, but the fear of throwing away something valuable scares me. So, I let the boxes and papers stay in their respective places collecting dust. I pray that I gain to courage to release the old to embrace the new and to FINALLy pack!!! Hopefully, you can give me some encouraging words to help me to get over the dread of packing.

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