Daily Archives: October 4, 2014

Colorado, The Move

For Whom the Bell Curves (i found this phrase at a website of the same name.)

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Fall                                                                                    Falling Leaves Moon

A bit more cleaning up, decluttering, then a walk through to agree on work we’re going to do tomorrow when Kate’s sister Anne comes up.  This is outside work, harvesting the last of the vegetables, cleaning up the beds and putting down the broadcast fertilizer. There’s pruning and hose retrieving, wheel barrows and garden art to come in for the move.

Dehn’s landscaping comes on Monday at 8 a.m. to do front yard work. This is for curb appeal for the most part.

Then on Wednesday the realtor’s and the stager come. Once we settle on what we need to do inside, we’ll figure out when to do it, probably as late as possible, then find someone.

We’re definitely on the downward slope of the curve, but even as we near the bottom there are still many tasks that remain. It’s important now to recall all we’ve done to get to this point. And how daunting the move would look if we had done nothing.

This illustration shows the true nature of the task. The darker orange curve represents packing, arranging details like a second mortgage and movers, all those things that are Minnesota focused and aimed at getting our portable items from here to Colorado. That’s the curve on which we’ve reached the downward slope.

The lighter orange curve represents finding a new home in Colorado, moving in, getting our life altogether shifted from Minnesota to Colorado: buying, updating and moving into a new home, health insurance, driver’s license, estate plan plus all the smaller things like identifying a car dealership, a pharmacy, a grocery store, utilities. On that curve we’ve barely begun to climb the upward slope.

My guess is that the time it takes to extricate ourselves from Andover will match the amount of time it will take us to get the new life begun. How long it will take to have a new, Colorado life? Years, I imagine.

 

 

 

Colorado, Our Land and Home, The Move

Surreal

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Fall                                                                                  Falling Leaves Moon

Kate said this morning that she had surreal moments with the move. Me, too. We both work along, packing, getting other matters taken care of but the move itself feels unreal, as if a mirage. Why did I pack all of my books in boxes? Why did she clear out the guest room, let all the bedroom furniture be carted away? We’re going to do all this and still be living here.

The present, with its weight of 20 years, has far more heft than an imagined place in the mountains, far across the plains. Impossible to see, even in the mind’s eye. So there is only this illusion, this planned, hoped for thing over against the 20 winters, the 20 growing seasons, the 20 birthdays and anniversaries. Against the bringing in of groceries, of feeding the dogs, of doing laundry and writing novels. All here. In this place. Where we still are.

Though I’ve said before that the move makes me feel both here and there, here has more power, the now has more power, than the not yet, the there. Which is good. I want to be here until I’m not, just as I want to live until I die.

Yet we have to have the not yet to pull us forward, to give meaning to those stacks of boxes, the plastic bins, the discarded furniture, all the work we’re having done. Without the not yet our actions, though still surreal, would also be mad. Just as without death, it seems to me, life would lose its uniqueness and become merely being.

We cannot outwait the move. That is, we cannot do nothing and expect to end up living in Colorado next year. No, we have to take action now, find our Conestoga, pack up the hoop skirts, the anvil and plow. Get the oxen ready.

And so we are. But I imagine those pioneers probably looked at the wagon and felt as we do. We’re still here in Pennsylvania or Ohio or Virginia and though we’ve got our goods packed and ready to load, we remain here. As we always have. And always will.

Until wood on wood begins to creak and cry out, until the whip cracks over broad shoulders and with a lurch the wagon is no longer still, until then, we live here.