Tea and Poetry

 I've just gotten up and made my tea. It’s overcast outside my window. Yay, tea. Now I'm back under the covers but propped up with a big pillow, thinking. If I had thought to grab a pen, I'd be handwriting this for familiarity's sake, but I didn't, so I'm at my keyboard, leaning back and coming to.

It's not that I haven't been sleeping well. For some reason or other, both Jim and I have been pleased with the quality of our sleep in our new place here in D.C. We are on 12th Street, which is tree-lined and quiet. One street over, 11th, is a two-way through street with lights. It's nice that we don't have to deal with that commotion.

Speaking of which, much of the chaos of our move here from the house we lived in for 48 years is over. We've accomplished a lot. Although we'd gotten most of the boxes unpacked and our furniture placed before we left for vacation, there were still a bunch left to go through, and that's what I did all week. Jim broke them all down, and now, humble, lowly servants are out in the back alley waiting to be hauled off by the city. 

This place is small, so part of the challenge has been figuring out where everything will go. I can slip easily into a detailed, myopic state of mind. The adage A place for everything and everything in its place has never carried such meaning—canned goods only on this shelf; pasta over here. Duplicates of anything are a thing of the past. Although I made concessions for the multiple containers of chicken broth (we'll make soup this week and free up space), I've been decanting cylinders of cornstarch, turning multiple salt shakers into one. 

And I'm okay with the limits after living in a house with so many spatial options. In the past, I could have stashed mail and postage stamps in several random spots; jammed coats and jackets in front and back hall closets. For years, we enjoyed the largesse of an overflowing pantry that offered an ample assortment of foods. Now, we've cancelled our membership to the big box store. No more large economy-sized anythings for us anymore. I used to wonder why anybody would ever buy a small tube of toothpaste when the larger size is so much cheaper. Our tiny one-sink bathroom has been coaching us on all sorts of ways to adjust. 

I've enjoyed the challenge of creating order out of the chaos of moving, and now I'm facing lessons that are less about where to place envelopes and furniture and more about where to put my newly moved self. It feels like versions of me are everywhere. A glance at a side table slides me back to rooms in my old house; hanging a picture on a wall here ricochets me to the wall it used to hang on. I'm balancing loneliness for the old house with the fun of creating a new one. A version of myself said yes to the moving adventure and pressed on without any answers. Another part of me sits here quaking before the reality of the unknown. 

The poet, Billy Collins, reminds me that this move is another knot in the string of time. I’m a craftsperson, a knitter. I'm good with my hands, so that image helps me in these moments of second-guessing, when dealing with the now and the not yet. There is that brave, more courageous part of me that is out there always before me, blazing my trail - [the]invisible scout, [the]hound that pulls me along, I've done this; I can do this.

My cup is empty, but the sun is trying to break through. In gratitude, I look up and ask - Where would I be without tea and poetry?