It was (mostly) a joy to receive the 40 foot container full of our stuff this weekend. The house is filling up, there are more toys and books for the kids, and I’m writing this sitting on an actual couch.
But I also find these starkly marked transitions to be oddly melancholy: What will happen in the next “x” years? What will the day feel like when it’s all boxed up again? How old will we all be? Where will we be going? Seattle? Shanghai? Amsterdam? Around the corner?
Moving to a new country (relatively) frequently has forced me to notice and mark every change according to where we were/are: Wow, I bought this sweater back when we lived in Seattle. Hey, these clothes from Zhuhai work again now that I’m back in the semi-tropics. Did I really ride this bakfiets cargo bike every day only 8 weeks ago?
I’ve been slowly reading the novel “Sea of Poppies” by Amitav Ghosh. In talking about a group of migrant, indentured Indians traveling by sea to a far flung, foreign destination, he includes this description of their day of departure:
“… The long-planned-for rituals of departure were forgotten in the confusion, but strangely, this great outburst of activity became itself a kind of worship, not so much intended to achieve an end – their bundles and bojhas were so small and so many times packed and unpacked that there was not much to be done to them – but rather as an expression of awe, of the kind that might greet a divine revelation: for when a moment arrives that is so much feared and so long awaited, it perforates the veil of everyday expectation in such a way as to reveal the prodigious darkness of the unknown.”
The big, interesting question that these stark transitions force: What will be?