There are cicadas here in Pickens, too, on my last Tuesday night typing at keys in the rented carport of a rancher, no other sound of human life.  One year ago this week, I was in Hampton prepping to move to South Carolina. 

This week, the moving truck comes again; I’ll pack up my life and move back to Virginia, for now at least.

One of the best parts of living out here in the country has been my Pickens parents, Mama Sue and Durwood.  What might at first appear like loaning his in-laws, my oldest brother David was really giving me a family network.  Mama Sue came by tonight with dinner for me and my moving helper, Omari.  And it wasn’t just physical sustenance from her tote bags that she brought. 

She helped me in the kitchen.  I’d packed all the china and appliances.  It was the pantry that scared me.  If there’d been a label to explain why I hadn’t tried to empty those cabinets yet, they’d have been sealed in red caution tape reading an accusatory, “Wasteful! Wasteful!”

I set Mama Sue up with two medium-sized boxes, one for throw-away and one for give-away.  On the same day Donald Trump had a rally in Pickens, the power went out for two days, so while the stench in my fridge wasn’t friendly this evening, Mama Sue didn’t have to help me throw away any of those perishables. 

The world around me is still, but I’m not.  I woke up in Virginia, but I’ll sleep here in Pickens just a few more nights.  Maybe it was the eight hours driving west or the six hours I just knocked out packing kitchen breakables and appliances, but the intensity of the crickets taunts me to knock out a blog post past its due hour. 

As we worked, we talked, like we always do.  She knows me well enough to understand that on Tuesday nights, I discipline myself to write, rain or shine.  I told her I wasn’t sure I had it in me to blog tonight.  Mama Sue didn’t miss a beat before replying, “Sure you do!  You’re purging the past to prepare for the future!  That’s your blog.” 

I know I never keep it short when I promise to, but 10:30 pm feels like midnight when you’re 40.  Her mesquite chicken and cheesy ranch potatoes nourished the body, but Mama Sue’s words of wisdom fed the soul.  I wouldn’t need 1200 words after that solitary quote.  I’m purging my past to prepare for my future. 

And in that future, I don’t need 2 cans each of condensed chicken, mushroom, onion, and cheddar soup waiting for expiry before an emergency that requires me to use them.  In some ways, the kitchen is the easiest room to pack for a move, but for those who feel the noose of waste tightening at the thought, it was nice to turn my back and let Mama Sue make those choices for me. 

I suppose it happens most naturally when we move that we see a need to physically declutter.  My friend, Mary Beth, has been watching decluttering videos and implementing new strategies and systems for managing the accumulated “stuff” in her home.  It’s been amazing to watch her daily room makeovers.  On day one, her kitchen counters were immaculate, void of things, light and sparkling. 

Her daughter Josie and I worked in the garage to make a home gym area this past weekend.  I noticed a corner of the garage marked off by duct tape on the ground.  Inside that area were several laundry bins, a side table, and a television. 

“That’s the quarantine,” Josie told me, explaining that whenever they made a big change in the house, rather than getting rid of things, they put them into quarantine for a month.  After a month, they can reassess whether those items are restored to their home or given away.

For example, they’re trying a new laundry system.  Rather than four individuals keeping four separate hampers and doing four separate individuals’ wash, the Crawfords are trying out a system of one clothing hamper in the wash room that collects everyone’s items and is done daily.  If the new system doesn’t work, they can just get the laundry bins back from the garage. 

Purging your stuff is easier when you have help, videos or otherwise.  I found it to be true the weekend of my yard sale, parting with less-loved belongings simply because they had new homes.  I found it to be true with the contents of my fridge, destroyed for me in an extreme power outage.  I found it to be true with Mama Sue tossing half-used spices and vinegars into either give-away or throw-away boxes… I’ll never know. 

I know she’s right.  Tonight, I’m purging my past to prepare for the future.  There’s an Erykah Badu song that says, “Bag lady, you gon’ hurt your back draggin’ all them bags like that… One day all them bags gon’ get in your way.” 

What’s in that future?  I honestly don’t know. 

So, isn’t it best to pack light? 

What I see right now is me, the beach, and my ukulele.  I was raised in Upstate New York; when I moved to Pickens last July, I didn’t realize the ocean had altered my DNA.   Spending six of the last seven weeks in Hampton Roads affirmed I needed to feel my place in the world. 

I’m purging my past to prepare for the future, and I’m anticipating the moment the last box is packed in my moving truck and I can get back to Fort Monroe beach, to my spot on the shore at sunset.  Every night, the same routine, packing light, just my beach chair and my ukulele, Summer Sarah.

We poke out chord progressions for Jeff Buckley’s “Hallelujah”, attempt the strum patterns for Jack Johnson’s “Banana Pancakes”, and play by ear “Amazing Grace”.  The sleeping beach is our audience.  We play until patrols send us home, unaware of passing time or passersby. 

That’s my mental and emotional quarantine time.  Boxed off in the corner of a room in case I want it all back again, I play through my memory catalogues and catacombs, often synonymous in the same tune.  My back hurts, dragging so many bags around.

If I’m honest, they’ve already been getting in the way.  In two days’ time, I’ll geographically reverse last year’s interstate move, but I’m bringing less with me for the next fresh start, literally and figuratively speaking.  I’m not moving backward.

The crickets and cicadas haven’t let up.  The clock rapid-ticks with the buzz.  Goodbye, country respite.  Hello, unknown future. 

I’m ready. And I’m packing light.