Moving, moving

This is it. The first phase of Chicago life is over. I have a second phase and that is great. But summer is almost over. I can't believe that I am moving yet again. Not once but twice. Once in Chicago and once from Minneapolis. It is heartbreaking.

Chicago

On my bus ride home from work today, I looked at the neighborhoods we passed through and I realized how little I had explored. I missed the sunshine and my walks and the church bells that went off in the evenings. I had to stop. I can't bear to think about it all now. My room, with its lovely wooden floors. It was only unbearably hot four days in the entire summer. I love the clean, paved streets and greenery. My new place does not have that. My new place has a dorm-like entrance, far, so far from the doorway.

I have been moving in phases, taking suitcases and bags one at a time. Today I stepped into an elevator and knew I had stepped into pee or as a colleague described it 'a bum's bathroom'. It has been a day. I got on the bus and the driver was chatty, asking where I was going? Florida? His conversation only floated partially towards me - you look Nepali, your accent is Indian. Do they have fried chicken in India? Plus the usual: I have always wanted to go there. I am feeling snarky and almost say: don't, we already have too many people. I don't

I can't believe I am moving again. I want to be stationary, still. I want to pause, to enjoy not just a moment, but a steady period of time. Summer is going, going, gone. Boots and jackets are out. I am not a fan of Fall. I like summer, the relentless heat on the back of my neck, the burn of a tan outlining itself, the sunscreen melting in moments.

Minneapolis

One day later I find myself in Minneapolis. I'm feeling frugal and take the bus to the Chicago airport. It is a long journey through many neighborhoods and I am glad I did. I arrive in Minneapolis, dazed and unsure if I have my house keys. I sit in the train and marvel at how clean and shiny everything is. It is sparkling and glinting in the sunlight. I had forgotten how picturesque Minneapolis is, I feel strange, as if I am in two places at once. I take the bus home and we go through familiar routes and I feel like I am going crazy. What is real, where is home, I no longer know. I step inside the house and am hit by the familiar yet odd smell of wooden floors and dust and cleaning supplies. There is stuff all over the house. My room is so familiar, so comfortable, it takes me two minutes to fall into the delusion I am staying here. My bed, my table, the big orange butterfly kite on the wall, dorky family pictures, a colorful rug. I want to stay in this room. But I am moving, moving, moving. So I get up, start packing, go buy giant boxes, meet old friends and pour out the last few months in garbled rushed sentences. I am up packing late and wake up early to run errands, meet people. I now understand why this feels like a small town - I run into two different sets of acquaintances as well meet my first boss ever. I meet my advisor who is going through a professional transition of his own. People who know me tell me I look different, somehow more alive. I start selling stuff, trying to get some handy cash. I have to be frugal for a while for a couple of reasons, the most important one being to stop becoming a hoarder. I hoard so much stuff. It is only when I move and pack do I realize it. It weighs you down. But for now, it is fine. Almost everything except the bed is gone and that too will find a home. I have petty cash, a place to stay, a final hurrah planned and then it is back to Chicago. Here's something I wrote on moving a while back, which continues to resonate:

Moving is madness; it sets you off into a perpetual crisis.

Moving makes you make new friends, it cements and fractures older friendships.

Some days moving is music and some days it is the shrill scream in your head.

It is the voice that says you must have been fucking batshit crazy.

Moving makes you fall apart, and then gather, and then hit the repeat button on this process till you think another round is absolutely impossible. Then it will start again.

Moving is sharing spaces, houses, secrets.

Moving is (for me maybe?) the secret fear of death alone.

Moving is crazy, crazy, crazy. Only todas locas will do it.

Moving will ask me questions every single day. You think you can silence the voices; you can’t. They will survive you.

Moving is all or nothing. You have to embrace it. And even though you will, it will shatter you, slowly but surely. Then you will put yourself together. And you will brush off the stray splinters and move on.

Someday you will stop peeking into other people’s lives; wondering what belonging feels like. Someday you will just belong. You would have moved.