Last night I dreamed that to end an argument, I agreed to re-marry my ex-husband. It was the first bad dream I’ve had since childhood.
Thursday morning my children and I moved from one building on campus to another building less than a city block away. It was a short-distance barely worthy of changing our address but I worried that my children would feel unsettled—we had just moved to the UK nine months ago. Though they weren’t changing schools I worried they would need to readjust.
Months ago when I told them about the move, they seemed un-moved.
“The roof is being replaced on this building,” I explained.
“Ok,” they had all moved on. I don’t think I did.
My youngest son’s ability to organize and compartmentalize eased toys, clothes, pet rocks and baubles into large boxes. My oldest son packed the night before. My daughter had packed months ago when she’d moved to her university campus and boxed up what remained so that we didn’t have to.
It’s challenging not to assess life in terms of accumulation when you’re boxing and labeling your possessions.
When I was growing up we moved every few years. We moved from my grandmother’s house near the ocean to a townhouse in the suburbs and from that to a house in the country. Each move brought new anxieties and with them an assortment of bad dreams.
These last few days I have felt more emotional than ever. I had forgotten to reflect: to plot and to write it out.
To remind me of the necessity of contemplating self, last night, to end an argument with my ex-husband I offered: “I’ll marry you.”
This morning, as I sip coffee, I write.