Oh yes, I forgot to mention – I am moving again.  Vintage books, china ballerinas, fabric backgrounds all lie dormant in boxes – little sleeping beauties wrapped in plastic bubbles.  For a while, nothing will feel like home.

Now, I don’t care for moving.  It takes me so long to settle anywhere.  That’s the issue, right there: I need to see my half-dreamed ideas arranged along shelves and hung on walls to feel that I, too, am present.  Without the murmur of those things I love, the silence is too solid and uncomfortable.

I have certain friends – and they know who they are – who can pack their lives up in less than 2 weeks.  I wish I could be half so self-possessed.  I really mean it.  But, the softest center of myself only peeks out from the safety of her glass bonsai forest.  If I want to see her, then she requires plastic flowers and vases shaped like slender, giving hands.   Maybe I could celebrate these tender enticements, and schlep them with gratitude –  instead of constantly wondering why I need all this stuff.

Because, I guess I know why.