Packing Up

Moving out feels much sadder than moving in, more gladder-- which is poor grammar for severance of love's embodied glamour. Packing up feels more like packing in and down, cutting ties with my own stage, this playful working space, for everyday self and other witnessing life love hate joy anger courage fear healing suffering Not a fabulously grand stage but my intimate memories triggered by damp basement through dusty attic, inside resonant and outside growing resilient, front yard exhibitions and back yard more inhibited glimmers and shivers, dimmers and emotive rivers Moving out without regard for loss feels too surgical, masochistic, violent dross, silent shriek of bad faith, cross, divestment from personal political economic cultural placement more sacredly cherished than secularly calculated in clock time to move on. My best therapeutic intent to know I leave this tiny spot of Earth at least as healthy and beautiful as I have found her while unpacking in her abandoned neglected bramble thorned sadness inviting my hope-filled gladness too few years ago.