Postcard one https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Life : the corner of a curtain that remembers the street. Postcard two: a sock folded like a promise. These are not destinations, but small truths I tuck into a suitcase I haven’t closed. Welcome to “Living Under What Can’t Be Packed: Few Epistles Of A Transit Life.”

There are things here that hum with their own address, and I listen for the sound of a life folding into a box. The letters that follow are small attempts to translate the stubborn noises of a room that will not be quiet.

To know the deets of jetlagged but joyful with our entry into Canadian territory, click on Jet Lagged But Joyful: Our Entry Into Canadian Territory – Wander, Feast & Thrive

Few Epistles Of A Transit Life : Living Under What Can’t Be Packed

I find myself in a living room that feels like a space of confessions. Bags accumulate like small battles, each representing a past choice needing revisiting. My intentions were clear: to donate, discard, or hand over belongings. Yet, I didn’t foresee how each item carries its own tale or how my hands remember their former places.

I have carried boxes to the thrift store until my arms ached and my mouth tasted like fluorescent air. I walked to the lounge with trash bags, leaving them in baskets as if that would make them less mine. Friends have taken few stuffs, a stack of plates; dismantling what held them together became another chore I had to learn.

We tried to give away furniture to the bank but were told to wait until January twelfth. By then, we will be in another country. The pickup date made our house feel uninhabitable. Dismantling pieces for a friend became a lengthy task: unscrewing and labeling, pretending the screws and bolts weren’t also memories.

There is a strange arithmetic to clearing out: every bag emptied reveals three more things needing decisions. I bargain with objects as if they were people. Keep this because it was a gift. Keep that because it was useful once. The bargains are attempts to postpone the grief of letting go.

Living Under The Mess Is Literal : Few Epistles Of A Transit Life

Living under the mess is literal for me: a blanket over a chair, a stack of books on the floor, a coat that won’t fit any bag because it remembers the winter it kept me warm. Controlling the emotions attached to these things is a muscle I never knew I needed to build. I fold, I stuff, I tie, then sit with the sudden emptiness of the shelf and feel the room tilt toward absence.

We figured it out the tough way: don’t collect stuff just because you like it; don’t let liking turn into hoarding. Enjoying things is cool, but when you have too much, it just gets heavy. Those thrift and trash bags are proof that we’re drowning in our own likes.

Exhaustion hits me like a heavy blanket. My back’s all knotted up, my patience is running low, and it feels like the house is just staring at me, patiently waiting for me to chill out. I start counting stuff to ground myself: one lamp, two mugs, three shirts. Counting turns into this little ritual that stops me from just drowning in work.

I want the house empty, not because emptiness is clean, but because emptiness will let me leave without dragging the weight of a thousand small attachments. For now I live inside the mess and move through it like someone learning a new language. These pages are the record of that learning: blunt, unfinished, and necessary.