Meditation on Moving

It’s a rainy day at the ass-end of August, which can only mean one thing: moving day! Furniture and belongings, some of it as-yet-to-be moved and some of it discarded, can’t hide from the rain. And the cheap, blue tarps that have been pulled from the shelves of every hardware store in a 10-kilometer radius will only impede the deluge for so long. It would seem that it only rains at inopportune times (a category that moving happens to fall into).

But moving is change. It brings flux to the universe and those forgotten items left in old abodes are future cocktail conversations for new tenants. And in that sense it’s not all bad (though it’s hard argument to swallow for anyone unfortunate enough to have to wrestling one hundred and fifty pound dressers, media centres and TVs down four flights of stairs). Parents swoon over fledglings that are leaving the nest for the first time, their concern leaving the aisles and shelves of every grocery store empty of non-perishable items—I sure hope Billy like Habitant Irish Stew.

Yes, it’s moving day in the University city of Halifax.

Leases are signed in ink or blood and cosigned by weepy parental units. Get a good look at your landlord now, because unless your cheque bounces it may be the last time you see him or her.

Of course I, the axis, do nothing more than sit as observer and let the happenings revolve around me. I try not to get drawn into the drama, but admittedly the “sold out” sign where the Kraft Dinner used to be forces me to gnash my teeth (just a little bit).

Leases expire at midnight tonight, and those that are leaving should have been gone, and those that are coming will shortly be there. I wonder where people stay this night? Is there an entire transient community roaming the streets as they are displaced from one location and have no right to another till the following day? I guess that’s what friends and family who sign leases throughout the year are for, way stations for the weary of packing, and pushing, and moving.

But I’m not moving. I’m resigning my lease, content with the humble apartment I call home. I helped Leah push a couple things into the van she rented and will be up early tomorrow to help her with the sofa and TV. And I supposed I might lend a hand as my new roomy moves in, and I’ll save him a trip or two by lifting a box or two. I’m happy that my life and belongings are laid out in front of me, not hiding in cardboard boxes taken from liquor and grocery stores. The last thing I used still in the place I left it. Better than that, I’m not outside, stuck waiting for a moving van and pushing my life into the back of a cube van and using every ounce of energy that isn’t already invested repairing a slipped disk in my back from carrying a poorly angled bed to keep patient during the inevitable ordeal of trying to get from point A to point B.

It’s moving day in Halifax and a rainy one at that. As thousands change homes like hermit crabs, dry and warm inside I thank the lucky stars that I’m not one of them.