Moving Away, Moving Toward
By Amanda R. Toronto

hat skirt that sits an inch too short above the knee?  Not flattering.  Letters from fifteen years ago written by people no longer in your life?  Sadly, into the wastebasket they go. The sushi roller you’ve had for close to a decade that has never seen the light of day, let alone rolled a piece of sushi?  Face it, Sister, sushi will never be rolled by your hands.             It’s moving day.             Moving Day, August 2007, was a day I had simultaneously been denying and constantly fretting about. Many sleepless nights and unproductive days were
		spent worrying about how we were going to get everything done, where we were going to put it, and my inherent inability to weed through and thin out my possessions on a weekly basis like Real Simple suggested.  Soon, the days of anxiety were replaced by twelve-hour days of wrapping, packing and tossing.  More surprising and challenging than trying to determine where I had stashed the box for the coffee-maker, was the realization that moving would force me to face my past, present and future.             The arbiters of good taste
and organization, as well as my friends and, occasionally, I must grudgingly admit, myself, often describe the horrific and grueling ritual of moving as cathartic:  a time to organize; a time to clean house physically and metaphorically.  Moving is an opportunity.  An opportunity!  I reminded myself of that every hour of ever day I was packing. An opportunity to get organized, establish goals and priorities and, if the implications in my cherished magazines are correct, develop clear skin and drop ten pounds by the time I was moved in to my new home.  But I jest.  Developing clear skin is often far, far easier than moving.  Because moving, in addition to physical labor, requires brutal honesty and a shutting-down of sentimental responses towards objects that were once meaningful.  And that meant casting a critical eye on a life I once had and the person I once was.  Moving is about coming face-to-face with who you were (a sometimes horrifying and other times pleasantly surprising experience); who you are now (older, wiser and a bit more daring); and who you want to be (organized, well-read and stylish). Sifting through years of accumulated junk made me realize that, despite my protestations to the contrary, I am a consumer and a pack rat. That I might not be as well-read as I thought.  And yes, that I am heavier than I was when I was twenty-five.  Drats.             However, sorting through my possessions also made me realize how lucky I am.  How lucky to not be twenty-five anymore!  Finding old letters from friends reinforced the amazing fact that I have a group of girlfriends to call my own.  And though a virtuous feeling briefly came over me while dropping off bags at Goodwill, my final thought was how lucky we were to be able to give away so much. Though there isn’t much time to linger over things during the heat of packing, my husband and I took moments to look at old photographs and read old letters.  It was sustaining and embarrassing, and reminded me that, though we dealt differently with the stress of moving (and by “differently” I mean we argued…a lot,) we were in it together.  More significant than the decision to rid myself of dinnerware I no longer liked (sayonara floral-patterned Corelle) was the opportunity after the move to reflect upon what would come next, the unknown world ready to be filled with new experiences and fewer possessions.  Though twenty-five is a distant memory, the questions I pose to myself will always be the same: Who am I?  Who do I want to be?  What do I want out of life?             Most importantly, what I’ve learned from this recent move can be summed up in three small but powerful words:  Hire a mover.  Because catharsis is good, but avoiding a slipped disc is even better.