A tiny cluster of bags, plastic tubs and paint supplies stick out from the bottom of my bed, creating a small pathway to my door. I look at this collection, propped in a bed with only a sheet to cover myself for the evening. I am moving again, and there, at the foot of my bed is the selection of me. My life as exemplified by a plastic tub, shoe box or two. I peeled the images from my closet wall, the many faces of myself as I study the intricacies of aging through the twenties. It seems strange to see the table that has been splattered with paint, paint that caught on the picnic table draped haphazardly over the softly stained wood, to stand bare now, vacant of a propped up canvas, oil paints spattered about.
Any other time this would cause a swell of nostalgia, partial resentment at having to move yet again, and after the last few, a general nervousness at the change, but today, I feel content to pack my bags for what I am calling "Summer Camp". A summer spent in Amherst, Massachusetts in a subleted apartment. This afternoon as I stood in the door frame of my new room I glanced at the table, the bed, the bookshelf and thought, yes, I think I would enjoy this room with it's yellow painted walls, freshly vacuumed floor. I smoothed my hand over the surface of the desk imagining my paints and table cloth protecting this surface from a colorful onslaught. The yellow felt good. I did, after all, have a choice between that or orange, but the yellow was good. Yellow has been two of my best friend's favorite colors.
Perhaps thinking of this as Summer Camp is all it took. Perhaps just the rhythm of packing my things, selecting between what I deem a necessity and what can wait. I find this often, a partitioning of things, things that I relate to myself. A partitioning down from what use to be large, then cut down, then boxed, then moved, then cut down, then boxed, and then here I am doing it again. And I know now if I go to my attic, I would just toss almost all away. I don't need it. In some ways it no longer belongs to me, my childhood things, my teenager things, my college things. Shedding it like layers. Shedding it, as I leave my parents house again after a nice refuge when I needed a refuge, but a place I have been pushing from like a caterpillar in her cocoon as of late. It is time to stretch the wings.
So I take my tiny pile, my layer, and a feather or two for guidance, pull the Trina painting from the wall, slip them into the car and move on.
