Moving Is Symbolic

Moving stirs up dust from your past. It has a way of reminding you where you’ve been, and causes you to question where you’re headed. In all the cardboard boxes and packing tape, you find yourself and lose yourself all at the same time.

My parents are moving. Move number 15 in their life together. And a few months later, they’ll move again once their new house is ready. They’re down-sizing their home and upgrading their joy, as I see it. Trading in the hollow bedrooms of their empty-nester house for a smaller home to enjoy life and time with family more, complete with an extra large garage for dad, a guest bedroom for the grandkids, and a lakeside view for mom.

In helping them on their way to move number 16, which may or may not be their last, my husband and I have been helping put things into storage. In all the spring cleaning and packing, I’ve been uncovering ghosts in the attic.

You see, as you begin pulling things out of your closet and clearing out your attic, you begin to wonder where all this stuff came from. And as you look more closely at each relic, you discover little bits of your soul.

Amidst elementary school notebooks, old yearbooks, my very first teddy bear, and cheerleading uniforms, I found a heap of photographs and old negatives mixed with trash. Buried underneath several what-was-I-thinking mementos, a stack of photos took the air right out of my lungs ––

There we were. It was the day of my high school graduation. My mother had planned a fabulous family celebration, complete with games and a pineapple cake decorated with daisies. Standing next to me was my Aunt Karen and my cousin Rebecca. Their smiles as bright as their spirits. On such a day as my high school graduation, I felt the ebb of opportunity in my life. New doors were opening. And the me in that photo had no idea what the next several years would unfold.

Today, Karen and Rebecca are dead. For those who knew and loved them, there is enormous grief and anger felt in the ways in which they left this earth. And looking back at my unknowing, younger self, standing there next to them on such a happy occasion, I cry. I can’t help but cry.

Moving. It’s symbolic of life. It reminds you that it’s always changing. Never constant. The days may grow long, but the years are short and bittersweet. And while the dust may settle over our belongings, there’s a world outside our cardboard boxes that’s constantly shifting.

Much can be learned from looking back, and much can be lost in staying there. What I’ve learned in all the moving is that you have a choice of what you hold on to and what you let go of. One must let go of the pain, so that your hands are free to hold tightly to that which you have left.