I am moving.  again.  for the 50+ time in my 50 years of living this particular life.  and when I say moving, I don’t mean to my own beat (although I have been known to do that most of my adult life) nor do I mean moving along my path (although that could be extrapolated from the major move).  No, I mean moving as in where I live, as in moving from the current Attic apartment. 

The SO and I decided that we will store our belongings for the summer and that includes my car, Harvey.  We will then find another rental in September after spending the summer in Alaska.  That is our plan.  We are currently at the front end of that plan.  The sorting and sifting stage.  letting go.  passing on.  throwing out of stuff.  tenderly wrapping precious treasures. 

Seeings how I moved into the Attic space almost five years ago with two big suitcases and a blowup bed, the act of sorting and packing probably isn’t such a big task.  Right?  Loud buzzer or gong sound.  Wrong.  The SO and I are both garage sale (aka “GS”) lovers.  We have also been quite busy and lucky in the spying and retrieving of “set out free for the taking” sidewalk stuff.  Quick conclusion, we have a bunch of stuff crammed into the Attic. 

For me, sorting through belongings and paperwork and photographs and memorabilia is never a two step process.  I seem to have a built in emotional upheaval and processing of my feelings stage that is predictable in its occurence but unpredictable in its length or intensity.  As a result, sorting takes an inordinate amount of time and I have yet to really dig into the piles and boxes and heaps. 

Did I mention that we need to have vacated our Attic in three weeks? 

Yikes.

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