dismantling

IMG_2459It is hard to begin packing, to take down the set that has been my life for the past few years. I think of the stagings that have happened here – the romance, the tragedy, the intermission lazzi

Taking that first book off the shelf and putting it in a box is the hardest moment – that concrete first step that begins to disrupt an order that has settled in over the past few years.

Moving isn’t just hard because of the physical effort needed (although there is some of that), nor even the mental effort of organizing (which is quite demanding as well) – but the emotional energy needed to uproot, make a change, let go and move forward.

Even when I’ve chosen it. Even when I’m excited about it.

In order to take that first book off the shelf and put it in a box, I have to admit that for now, the show is closing – or at least moving on, continuing the tour. One thing needs to be dismantled in order for something new to be built.

I have realized in the past week that I need to make my lovely work room much less appealing, and my car (where I will be spending some quality time in the next few months) more appealing. Right now, I look at the room that feels like a little place of michelle-ness, and all I want to do is what the room was set up to encourage me to do: write, paint, dance, read, create, connect, wander, re-energize, play, laugh, rest.

My car, on the other hand, has been sitting under trees gathering spring dust while I went off to New York for six weeks; a corner of the trunk still holds my ex-boyfriends’ books – the ones that I never took to the used bookstore as I said I would two years ago.

That dust needs to go. Those books need to go.

I need to go.

And I am so ready,
but I also resist.

I decided in January that 2013 is the year of yes – and also the year of the necessary no. The no that makes room for the yes.

My work room needs to become uncomfortable, less hospitable, a necessary no. It needs to kick me out.

My car needs to become the window to yes: my comfort, my freedom, my flying-over-ground machine.

The no is what finally lets me put my own books in boxes, one at a time, taking down my set, stacking the books with the metaphorical backdrops and costumes and neatly wrapped lighting cords, knowing I can take them out again next time, on a new stage.

This is the same no that lets me participate in striking a show, saying goodbye to collaborators, feeling the loss but also knowing the journey continues beyond closing night.

It is time to allow for that no that lets me head to my car for yes.

The hiking boots in the backseat are ready to visit some mountains. The tires are ready to roll.

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