Every t-shirt I fold and put in the drawer is one I am doing with intent. Downsizing to a “junior hoarder” is a really big hill to climb but I don’t have a choice. I can’t take every t-shirt with me. I can’t even put them all in storage. Today I am sorting. Calmly folding laundry and asking myself how important each piece is. Knowing a lot will be packed away and the rest sent to Goodwill.

It was awful when it happened to me 5 years ago. My landlord needed my apartment and I had to move out. Three story house and a shed. My God, did I have a lot of shit. I tried selling things over the years: crafts, art, antiques, etc. But one day a mouse got in the basement and ate through all the boxes. Most of my things went in a 12 ft dumpster. It was both traumatizing and liberating. Especially as I was the one who had to, truck load after truckload, by my own hands- fill that dumpster with my treasures. Another great loss. My independence and everything that represented it.

This move is different. There’s less to tackle. After the shock of the last move, I was much more careful with what I brought in the house or hung on to. I still have my things but they are here for a reason.

Still, my mother says, “you could get rid of so much more!” And while she’s right, I’d rather have some nonsense and nostalgia in my possession than rushing myself through appreciating the items before I release them.

A lot of downsizing in this move has been the momentos from past church lives. Cards, books, gifts, and letters of encouragement. Notes from distant friends that claimed they’d never leave. Echos of the past sitting on my bookshelves and then in the judgement of my palms. Throwing away these items, I am releasing them and their memory. I cried over some of the things I threw away in this clean. Sat by the garbage and mourned the trinket and everything it used to stand for. Snipping the tether between them and me. Releasing their spirits back to the wild. I think it’s fair that I cried.

I am preparing and setting up for my journey forward. Clearing away the old and replanting the seeds of faith, love and community. I am mending myself with my accountability and humbling myself in the face of correction.

Healing is so messy. Sobriety is so loud. Schooling is so difficult and I am very tired. But I am making progress and I am letting go. I am fine tuning my instrument as I change my habits.

In a dream I had recently, I found a note with my grandmothers handwriting. It read, “it’ll get there”.

Meaning, of course,  I’ll get there. Life will get there. To that place that isn’t always living from trauma. To a place that feels safe and a mind that feels strong. I’m hanging on because it’ll get there.

I close the drawers on my temporary dresser and feel a spark of joy after viewing and carefully tucking away my favorite shirts. Jesus tells us not to store up our treasures here. During my transition between homes, I aim to appreciate the time spent living minimalisticly.

I remind myself daily to trust the process. This leap I’m about to take with no idea what’s below my feet. A net or rocks?

Spiritual signs pour into my daily life in synchronicities, in conversation, and in symbols. Voices on the other side repeatedly reminding me that I’m not alone- even when I am.

My life is hanging on a letter that hasn’t been delivered yet and I don’t know when it’s coming. Waiting for a judge to give me a date where they get to decide if I’m worthy of help from the state. Am I sick enough? Is my chronic pain crippling enough? We will see what these strangers decide

This situation of not knowing is wildly frustrating but we both know it’s the only way to get this lesson down. It’s not about the past or where I used to live. It’s not about where I’m going to live in the next six months or what the judge will say. All I can do is sort my things right now. I can box it all up and put my life on hold. Once it’s all in a storage unit, I will have the freedom to move anywhere. God will then place me where I will settle. I will rebuild my life.

I don’t get to plan this one. I couldn’t if I tried. I have no choice but to be present. That’s a heavy place to be sometimes but I’m getting used to it.

This is how we grow.