Moving Day and Thoughts on Possessions

The day I left New York was March 14, 2015. My mom drove me to the tiny Watertown airport, and I was fortunate that it was a "warmer" day in the mid to upper-30s instead of -30s and snowing. (March can go either way). I wore a relatively light coat that I normally wear in late fall or early spring, but would probably suit me just fine in a California winter. I had with me a large purple luggage bag, a backpack, and my purse. (I'd already mailed several things, including most of my clothing, to my friend and current roommate David).

It wasn't easy saying goodbye to my mom. Neither of us are the type to get super sentimental, and we tend to joke our way through most difficult situations. I could tell by the look on her face as I headed towards the baggage check area that she was sad to see me go. I hate goodbyes. I prefer to say, "See ya later." It always leaves the door propped open.

I sat with the twenty-something other people boarding the 1:20pm flight to Philadelphia in the small waiting area and tried my best not to cry. "The is an adventure," I kept telling myself. "It's what you really want to do." It's not easy to convince oneself to leap into a black abyss and hope there's a soft landing at the bottom. All I could hope was that there would be something worth finding at the bottom, and that the abyss was actually just a passageway.

It was hard to believe that the few objects I had in my possession would be what I would live with. That is to say, when someone is moving they tend to pack up an entire house: furniture, sentimental nick-knacks, maybe a car. It was in my nature to pack lighter than the "typical" woman, even when I was living at college. One of the advantages I had that allowed me to move cross-country is I didn't have to worry about packing up an entire house or children or pets (though I do miss those furry little buggers all the time).

The "awe-inspiring" Watertown International Airport. One terminal and a couple small airplanes.

I wouldn't be going without. The house I moved into is a palace compared to the first apartment I'd ever rented, and my "landlord"/roommate Tamara even bought some furniture for my new room. She has two dogs, Jack the German Shepherd, and Norman the black lab, so I don't go without furry companionship. I have more than enough to be comfortable here. In fact, every day I feel spoiled in the best possible ways.

With that said, there's something therapeutic about starting over. I doubt I could be the type to give up all of my modern comforts and live simply, but it did feel nice to have just my clothes, the beloved zebra-print blanket that used to belong to my mom, a few "necessary" electronics (laptop, iPod, and cell phone), a couple books, and pictures of my family and cats. I don't think there's anything wrong with having creature comforts, especially when one is traveling thousands of miles away from home, but it often feels nearly impossible to separate oneself from objects. We cling to these things as though they give us the companionship we lack in our lonely hearts, and we replace memorable experiences with physical possessions to occupy our time, rather than embracing solitude and utilizing time as best we can. To be honest, I had to force myself to sit down and write this because I've gotten used to being able to go online whenever I want to and I wanted to just veg out on Facebook and Instagram. (Back in New York, we had a wireless hotspot, but it only had limited data, and so we had to be very careful not to go online too much and use it all up).

My view was shrouded by clouds until someplace in the Midwest. Despite a fear of heights, I always loved the view outside an airplane window. It speaks of adventure and, literally, going somewhere you never thought possible.

As night fell around the plane, I was reminded of the passage of time and changes in time zones. As we flew westward, I got to watch a gorgeous sunset for hours. How many people get to say that?

When I landed in California later that evening, I immediately began sweating. It was 80-something degrees, and I was still wearing my coat and boots. I stepped out onto the street so David could pick me up, and was immediately blasted with hot air. Throngs of people bustled around me, speaking all sorts of languages, and cars sped past the San Diego Airport, some stopping along the side of the road to pick people up. I knew I looked completely out of place, but my nervousness mingled with excitement as David pulled up and told me to hop into the car. At least I was taking a chance, not letting fear of failure dictate where I should live out my life.

The next day, a true adventure began.