I can't unpack. For the past two days it was sheer fatigue. Just so tired and sad that I've been in bed before 9 each night. But it's also something else.
I go to put kitchen stuff away and I can't decide which of the two drawers I should use for silverware. And I don't know which cabinet is best for what. Should dishes or food go in the bigger cabinet or the one further to the right? I don't know, and so I have the things I've pulled from boxes so far in a jumble in a couple of cabinets, a saucepan next to the salt and pepper, a bag of rice pasta atop the coffee can, coffee filters underneath a cat food can. I have a bowl, a knife, a spoon and a fork, a coffee mug, a plastic tumbler: what more do I really need?
Open, unpacked boxes are everywhere, small heaps of belongings half-pulled out, half-shoved back in. If I need something, I pull open box after box until I find it, leaving the rest looking like a yard sale exploded.
I go to put things away but I can't do it. I can't unpack my clothes because I'm not sure if the dressers should stay where they are and they're too heavy for me to push easily if they're full of clothes. I don't put away bathroom things because there isn't room for everything, and I don't know what is more important and what to do with the things there isn't room for. And to come up with creative solutions just isn't in me.
Underneath it all is some sort of cellular acknowledgment that I've moved three times in the last six months, that I've moved nine times in the past three years. It faces the fact that I have no lease, and that if allowed, the longest I'll be here is for eight months, if that. And it gets: why unpack?
In this moment, I don't feel depressed, but those waves of grief and despair, that sinkhole where the hope drains out, come and go like they're at the mercy of some sort of emotional tidal force and I'm just a stretch of sand. I keep looking around for what is true, what doesn't shift, what I can count on, and I haven't really found anything yet, nothing that isn't of my mind anyway, but I find that I can take a deep breath after realizing that Yes really is the answer, and that I only know what to do for myself in the moment, and that it changes as each moment changes. I drink a glass of water. I hold Jacinta as she purr-rumbles as she sits atop my solar plexus. I take a bath. I watch the moon. I accept the blankness, and the despair, the laughter, and the deep exhalations that come when I hit upon something solid like Yes, like letting go of solidity and linear and logical and force of will.
So it's New Year's Eve and since I can't stand being away from Jacinta and Calhoon anymore than I have to, I'll stay curled up with them on the couch and watch movies, and we'll fall asleep, and when we wake up tomorrow morning the sun will stream in through the windows and there'll be another moment of Yes, and another and another . . .