Optimism is optional

After a year in the Bat Cave, it's that time again. Time to pack up and move. I'm ready but I'm still feeling anxious. Maybe I should treat moving like an annual pilgrimage. Some people move a lot. Not me. I spent the last twenty-four years in Portland. I was in one apartment for eighteen of those years. Moving to Tucson was a shock I'm still not over. 

It feels traumatic to put everything I own in my car and take it someplace else. I've been dreaming about unplugging computer equipment, packing Mom's TV, loading up my bed platform, stacking boxes and bins so they don't slide around and brain me while I'm driving. I don't know why I'm fretting. I'm not moving far. It's probably about a mile from the Bat Cave to the Trailer. And nobody is forcing this on me. I can only blame myself if I forget how to reassemble my computer. I think I'm feeling some PTSD from my move to Tucson last year. That move involved a U-Box, a car filled to the brim with possessions, a 1,500-mile road trip, a bad Google map, and a deadline. Needless to say, that move was fraught. I break out in a sweat when I remember driving alone for hours on I-93 through Nevada.  

I have another couple boxes ready to take to the thrift store, a few more used-up items to toss in the trash. I should be glad of the opportunity to pare a few more things out of my cold arthritic hands. It is good to own less, consume less. However, downsizing makes me sad. I know where downsizing leads. I remember helping my mother downsize. From the big house to the smaller house. From the smaller house to the condo. From the condo to the retirement home. From the retirement home to the care home. From the care home to a box currently on a shelf at my brother's house. Downsizing isn't only about letting go of possessions. It's about letting go of people. Of place. Of life.

It's raining again. This afternoon the southern sky turned black. The wind kicked up, sending leaves and trash skittering around the parking lot. Lightning flashed a few times, followed by rolling thunder. Then the rain came pelting down. It's happened almost every day this week. My neighbors and I no longer open our doors to marvel at the moisture falling from the sky. Ho hum. It's nice to feel cooler air, even though the ground will be dry thirty minutes after the rain stops. I prefer blue sky. 

My days are punctuated by Zoom meetings, planning the next novel, doom-scrolling, and getting weather alerts on my phone. Waves of grief wash over me from time to time. I have the luxury of riding the waves. I'm not at risk of flash flooding. I might be at mild risk for depression. I am missing my cat. I'm missing my mother. I am missing my old life. I used to know where I was. Now I sometimes forget where I am.

It's hard to feel excited about life when I am feeling sad. I should make a gratitude list. Let's see. The rain is amazing. I haven't seen a cockroach in over a month. The power hasn't gone out. I published my book. My car is running well. I haven't heard any gunshots lately. I don't have a hernia. See? Lots to applaud. I don't sit around paralyzed by grief. Optimism is optional. Despite my discontent, I carry on.