Molly usually goes to her litter box to poop. We kept it in the spare bathtub in our old house. Our old house is the one we just sold. Now we don’t have a house, at least not technically speaking. There’s a lovely house in Tucson that we’re planning to buy at the end of this month, but we’re not there yet. For now, Peter is traveling for work, and I am staying at my parents’ home in Boulder for a while.
While I’m here, Molly’s litter box is at the foot of my bed, and she sees it there. But last night, she went to the bathtub. This morning, I could tell.
Fortunately, my parents are kind and flexible people, and have cleaning supplies at hand. The latter for Molly’s midnight trip to the bathtub where she thought her litter box should be, the former, because their daughter is mid-move, and feeling a bit astray.
Moving is painful, fun, scary, exciting, and rocks your world to the core. I’m leaving behind a world I created with care and love. There are friends and places I will miss deeply. Peter and I had a lot of fun in our Colorado home, but now we are on to new adventures. The thing is, we aren’t there yet. For now, I am adrift in the missing, and not yet moored in our new home.
I’m sure that our livestock feels like this when they are moved from one place to the other – adrift, unsure of what is over the next horizon, or in the next pasture. The pastures we left always seem so green in hindsight; do our animals miss sweet clover and timothy and a special corner of shade? I empathize with their feelings of confusion. There is no tub for Molly’s litter box right now, and there is no home yet for me to hang my hat. Soon, enough, though, I’ll unpack my computer, plug it in, spend hours on the phone with the telecom company to get hooked up to the internet, and eventually get nested in.
Until then, I’ll float where the wind takes me, and try to ride those breezes in comfort instead of fear of falling into some unknown world.