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Mr T movingI hate moving.

I am a total pro at it – have done it enough in my life to be able to pack and unpack with the very very best of them. I can have a new home moved and unpacked for you in two days – flat! That includes new drapes hanging.

I once thought that would be a great business idea. Sorta the reverse of staging your home for a sale. When you get a new place, you rent me to make your move, fengshui all your stuff, get the odds and ends that you invariably need, put the mugs in the smartest place for when you stumble into the kitchen in search of coffee.

All while you spend a couple days parked on the beach.

But I hate moving.

I know. I know. You are about to say… “You are such a nomad, though!”

I know!

And “But you are moving to FRANCE!”

I know!

photo-6But underneath my nomadic existence is an incredible desire and joy in nesting. I just do it faster than others. I see it as a battle plan and execute it complete with diagrams. And I can nest with the placement of just a few sentimental objects around a place, a few special books on a shelf. And music. You make your home in music.

But saying goodbye to a space. Packing up and sorting through things. And living among boxes. Not a joy. It tears me apart. Destroys me. Leaves me unanchored.

I have a goodbye-saying ritual for my spaces. In there will be a moment when I let go and embrace fully the new. Promising myself not to look back.

In the meantime. Boxes. Packing tape. A glass of wine. Mr. T. And Me.