I'm packing up what I've called home the past 8 months. It's exciting and bittersweet. I can hardly navigate around the camper enough to sort and pack and I keep trying to tell myself... you only moved here with what fit in your car... a camper really doesn't hold that much.
And it doesn't.
So it isn't a big deal.
And I'm just moving down the hill, to town, and I want to do that, again, not a big deal.
But I guess... more than anything the bittersweet twinge is for the principle of it.
The principle of a life in motion. Of never quite having a home. Of always packing and sorting and carrying these things that augment my life... alone.
Geronimo lays by the recycling that will soon include all the glass jars I've used as tupperware. I listen to a guitar playlist, that I never burnt to a CD, take a sip of Alaska Summer, and keep packing.
I've done this long enough to know... the only way out is through.