Osborn Fiber Studio

So much. The burning fire of a thousand suns knoweth not my fury for disassembling our residence, with all its detritus, and manually transporting every last bit of it to a new location. To say nothing of cleaning our former residence, wishing I had kept it in better shape to begin with, and slightly resenting the fact that I’m making it cleaner for someone else than I ever bothered keeping it for myself. And praying that we don’t get shaved on the security deposit despite it all.

It’s past midnight, we’re mostly what you could call “packed,” and my back is aching. We’ve gotten enough vehicles lent from friends, and we’re praying for enough help; we accidentally picked the first weekend that half our friends felt like going out of town or are working, dear things. It isn’t going to be pretty, but really, it never is.

I just keep trying to think of our new house. Our new house is very, very pretty.

When I am filled with fiery hatred for the moving process, when I’m sore and tired, when I feel like the old house will never be clean, and there’s no way that all of this CRAP could possibly be transported in one day, when I start suspecting that through some loophole in the lease we’ll be trapped in indentured servitude to this house until we’ve scrubbed every crevice with a bottlebrush, when I imagine Jared and I stuck transporting carload after carload of leftover stuff all day and all night for the next two weeks (Actually no, I haven’t been having nightmares about moving. Now that I’ve stopped and reflected on it a bit, I might have them now.)

…When I feel that way, I look at this picture. I look at all the irises and columbines. I think about the updated house with its french drains and its glorious abundance of closet space. I think about the fact that I’m going to get my very own fiber studio, and Jared will get his very own office. I breathe deep and say, this too shall pass.

Doris was the first possession in. I think she approves.