Moving.

When I was a child, my favorite thing to do was to have "moving day" in my dollhouse. I'd take all the furniture out, generally wipe it down, and then put it all back. Over and over. It usually went in the same places as it had been before. But, it was about the act of transition, about picking up and putting down.

I worry, now, as it's only February and I've begun to think about where my things could go in a new place that I am not excited about anything other than the packing and unpacking. CA couldn't understand when he moved why I was so excited to wrap dishes in newspaper and load books into piles. I couldn't explain the zeal behind the containing and sorting. Perhaps it's an anal retentive thing; I think it's just a transition thing.

I love packing for the same reason I love airports--they signify something exciting. They signify people in the act. I used to love living in Boston not because it was Boston but because I spent so much time on airplanes. It was all about the movement. I felt like I was accomplishing something by hauling a suitcase onto the T and going home, or to St. Louis or to somewhere else for work. I felt like the act of going from A to B meant that something sound had happened in my day.

It gave me something to show for myself.

Once I got home, or back to Boston, the thrill would wear off eventually. But, it made me feel like I had somewhere to "be," or that I was someone to be desired. Moving is the same thing--that queen bee feeling. I like the accumulation of things.

I used to pretend I was a Russian refugee when I was a child. I would set up a tent and hide with my dolls. I used to pretend to abandon my things, or think about what I needed to take with me. I used to want to be Madeline. My parents thought I wanted to abandon them, but I liked the idea of life being compact and easy to manage. I liked the idea of organizing, or being a part of something.

It makes sense to me, to want to move. Every time, I haven't had the time to set things up in exactly my way. I haven't been able to step back, as I could do with that dollhouse, and think about how things would best be arranged. I didn't label my boxes and didn't pull out the sheets. I didn't do the everything that I wanted.

In traveling, I made the choices. I decided what to pack, when to book the tickets and where I was going. Up until now, moving has not been the same thing. I think I look forward to searching because the choices are entirely up to me. It feels selfish--to want to see my stuff in boxes, to unpack and have it be my own. It feels indulgent, a very twenty-something thing to do. However, I have already thought about how wonderful it will be to make that move, to find that place and make that transition.

I think about the pots and pans, the control over cleanliness. I think about the knowing. I think about how satisfying those days of undoing and doing again will be.