There’s going to be a time when I don’t have to deal with all this — right?
It would be a comfort to think so, that at some point the schedule will be nice and simple, the days clean and the mind clear. Certainly it will happen in the new place? When the boxes are unpacked over there, a new life can emerge without all these current complications — right?
At the moment I am engaged in a massive downsizing and simplification, to be followed by a relocation. And throughout the exhausting and confusing process, I tell myself there will be a time when most of my stuff is in a neatly stacked storage locker, the rest in my car with me, and life will be sweet. I’ll get to the next place, unpack, have another shot at organizing things, and I’ll get it all just right.
Then, or so the story goes, I simply rebuild from a foundation of de-cluttered clarity. Better work habits, healthier eating, more exercise, a thorough exploration of my surroundings. Maybe even some meditation.
If nothing else, at least this damn move will be done. That counts for a lot.
And yet.
And yet, there’s the specter of The Geographical.
In recovery we talk about this all the time. The alcoholic is mired in a misery of his own making, unable to steer out of the fog of drink. What he needs, of course, is to get out. And so he hatches a plan. Since life sucks here, maybe it will be better someplace else! Nobody knows him there, he’s never been to the local taverns, and he can start fresh.
Until the novelty wears off, of course. Life’s stresses eventually return, and they are met with old thinking, which leads to old actions — in the bar.
Or, as the saying goes, wherever you go, there you are.
So no, life won’t magically be simpler, or anything, when I get to the next place. But that doesn’t mean there’s no chance for renewal and revival. The fact is that I will have less physical stuff when I leave here, and I’ll be in a new place when I get there. And those things, in themselves, create a little space, an opportunity.
I’ll do my best to seize it.