It's embarrassing to admit, but it is 6:27 pm and I am still in my pyjamas. Rough day. Next door, construction crews bang around and spew concrete dust into the air as they erect a building that will block our ocean view from the kitchen. Upstairs, someone is apparently knocking down every wall and possibly most of the floor in a remodel. It makes for a very pleasant day in the house, with the walls shaking and headache inducing thumps from 7 am until 5 pm. In any other situation, I would be out of the house during this time, but because I have just 9 days left in Brazil, I'm in full-on packing mode. Meaning I can't leave. Or bother changing my clothes. This is serious.
All my possessions and accruals for the past five years must fit into three 70 pound suitcases. I'll leave my kitchen stuff and some books behind in storage, but everything else must find a home either in my suitcase, in the giveaway pile or the garbage dump.
It's a freeing feeling to declutter, but kind of depressing too. I've thrown out about 57 trees worth of paper already and a small wardrobe (though much of it was hand-me-downs acquired in other people's last-minute moving fits). I've discovered cringe-inducing old journal entries, weird jewelry, bottles of old nail polish and forgotten shoes lying in the bottom of the closet. It feels like snooping in someone else's life...which makes it easier to throw most of it away. But that nagging sad feeling that threatens to engulf my days hangs on, reminding me that this isn't just a drill, this is the real thing. When I get on that plane, I'm moving. Not just going back for a visit. It's potentially permanent.