A few days ago, I opened my cabinet to reach for a mug and was surprised to find it empty. The cabinet wasn’t empty because the mugs were in the dishwasher or sitting around the house half-full and forgotten, it was empty because I’d sold them in a yard sale a few weeks ago.
Five years ago, I left a house I’d lived in for over a decade, and even though I only took a small fraction of possessions with me, it was enough to fill a storage unit and a corner in my parent’s basement.
Two years ago, I emptied the storage unit and went through what I had in their basement. Another layer of stuff was purged, and the boxes of what was left were restacked.
Two months ago, I went through my earthly possessions, all of which fit into 12 plastic storage boxes, and asked the question, “Do I love this enough to ship it across an ocean?” If the answer was yes, it got repacked. If the answer was no, it went to the yard sale pile. Turns out I only love one of my mugs enough to ship across an ocean, and now there are significantly fewer boxes stacked in my parent’s basement.
At the end of this summer only what fits into two suitcases will come with me when I cross the ocean. The rest of my things, including the single mug, will have to stay in my parent’s basement for a while longer. When it’s time for them to move too, there will inevitably be another round of unboxing and evaluating.
I cried when I saw the empty cabinet. Not because I missed those mugs necessarily, but because it’s scary not to have the false security of more mug options than one person really needs. I cried because right after I decided that I was going to cross an ocean last autumn I had a dream where I saw myself sitting at a poker table shoving all my chips to the center. I knew that stepping in this direction would initiate something larger than just a trip, and it would require that I go all in. The piles of different colored chips represented all the different areas of my life and parts of myself, and without even looking at the cards I was handed, I knew that no matter what they were I couldn’t half-ass this decision. I had to whole-ass it. I had to say yes to Life. Yes, I am going all in. Everything I am, and everything I have, all in. I cried because going all in means that right now, I have an empty cabinet and no promise it’ll ever be filled again. I cried because the empty cabinet was a really visible example of the emptying out of everything - my bank account, my possessions, my ability to control how things will work out, and all the ways I’ve worked to make myself feel safe and self-sufficient.
I cried because for four years I’ve been singing a song prayer that includes the line, “Invited unto death til all that I have left is everything I need and I begin to breathe in the new country,” and now I’m actually moving to a new country and each purge feels like another invitation to a kind of death. I cried to mourn the self that got me here, and to celebrate the fertile soil her ashes create for the self that is emerging. I cried because I’m grateful to have to figure out what to take and what to leave, and I cried because I’m scared that my cabinets will always be empty. I cried because I’m excited for new mugs and worried that I won’t be able to afford them. I cried because I’m hopeful about what is unfolding for me now, and I cried because I feel hopelessly unmoored yet again. I cried because I am all in and being all in means that all of it is true - all the exciting stuff and all the scary stuff.
As I cried, I had an image of two great trees. The tree called Comfort had a lush canopy and was home to much aliveness both inside and out. The one called Discomfort was scarred and burned and in various states of decay. Me in the center, in a hammock held by the tension between Comfort and Discomfort, being rocked gently by a soft wind, learning how to rest.
To my community in Central Ohio, we only have a few months left in-person together before my move to Scotland. I’m opening up my June schedule on a pay-what-you-can basis. Since I don’t have an office we’ll need to meet in a park, or coffee shop, or over zoom. If you’re not in Central Ohio we can meet over zoom. Those who have worked with me before can head straight to the scheduling page or use the button above. If you’ve never worked with me and you’re curious about what we could do together, send me an email at hello@jennabaer.com.