Last weekend, I was leaving once again.
This time, I left the continent that had been my home for just about five years. Probably the biggest goodbye I've had in a while. And somehow this time, although I usually hate packing more than anything, I managed to really get into that aspect of my departure.
Four days I spent moving things around the apartment, making piles of clothing and buckets of stuff in this corner and that, sorting and re-sorting. Then, I embraced the leaving behind. I vigorously thrust piles of paper into the recycling bin, and danced by the dumpster out back. Every time I decided not to take something with me, I could feel a bit of my old shell shedding, and new young pink skin emerging. Finally, my whole life fit into two duffle bags and a backpack. Fuck, it felt great!
Meanwhile, my Canadian blood brother sent me a song with the lines
"Leave all your love and your longing behind,
can't carry it with you if you want to survive."
The soundtrack to my last week in his country.
It was, I hate to admit, a bit painful too: Moving further away from Boston, my home of many years. And parting with the people that made Waterloo seem like a place I could actually live in. But nothing beats the feeling of being on the road, moving, by yourself and onto a new place -- I had almost forgotten.