And now 12 days later most of the moving boxes are unloaded. Broken down and stacked against a wall outside. An ad is running in Craigslist, and soon they will be moving on. Ready to participate in someone else’s move.
I’m surprising myself right now. Mentioning boxes. Because initially I thought I’d just post a few images–make an effort to get back to the land of blog–I miss it–the conversation–and the longer I’m away, the harder it’s becoming to return. So to even mention boxes– I thought I was fed up with them–with their clunkiness, mass, heaviness. Fed up with their smell and the noise packing tape makes when pulled off their surface. Still–I’m sensing a germ of an idea here that needs to be explored. A metaphor that feels important. Boxes? What do they mean? When do they lose their value? When are they a tool and when are they a trap? How do we use them for compartmentalizing? For discriminating? For separating self from others? When do we open them? Air out the contents? Examine them to see if they still hold value? Or have simply become weights we lug around from habit? I could go on . . . .
But not now–later perhaps, or not. Because right now I need to look at a few images from the past weeks. The child’s sock–lost then found on the pavement outside of a home supply store–on a cold wet day in December….
And this–an old door…a very old door…long and heavy and perfect I thought for becoming a headboard. But because it was old and cracked it fell apart when I ripped it to the needed length. So a short project became a labor of determination–but after lots of glue, braces and wooden splints–here it is. Recycled. Sturdy. Functional.
This morning I realized my dousing crystal hasn’t surfaced. And because there was a question, I made one out of wooden beads. It has its own space now. With hawk wing. Hanging over the soon-to-be-consecrated work table.
Box update: the old ones are gone. Just picked up by a young woman moving to a horse farm in Madison County. And so it goes . . . .