I'm moving my studio into what used to be the playroom. That was just one sentence, but it feels like it could be a novel. I really don't like moving in any way. It's the stuff and the feelings attached to the stuff. I don't have much stuff actually, and over the years have been ruthless with what I keep. This goes for fabric, art, craft supplies, photos—all that. So what remains is potent and exhausting to handle. It's not that all these memories are sad, but they are filled with such strong feelings. It's exhausting for me in every way.
I've been really grumpy for the last few Saturdays as I try to move boxes filled with photos and life debris that I sort through until I can't anymore. Up pops without warning artwork I did in highschool, back when all I wanted to be was a painter, and old letters from my father who passed away 10 years ago. I start to feel like I just can't do it. But I have to because we are moving our bedroom downstairs into my old studio room, so our almost 10 year old can have her own room and not share one room with her 7 and 5 year old sisters. Very reasonable and fair, I say. It was my idea. She doesn't know she needs the space, but she does. And she will get a walk-in closet and her own bathroom, which is incredible to me. I keep telling her this. Knowing she is old enough to have her own room is also adding to my emotional ride.
So, I am about 70% done with the moving of my stuff. I have been working to music, the length of one album at a time. I crank up rdio (I love rdio!) and just try not to slow down and tell myself it's okay to cry while I go through this stuff, I don't have to try so hard not to.
The photos I just found are of my mom when is she a girl, my grandmother (her mother) and my brother and me when we were 17 and 18, 2 days before he felt left for college.