We’ve moved. Or, more correctly, we can’t stop moving.
At the end of the summer, we were going to move in with our in-laws. After over a year of resume-chucking and tie-tying, I still hadn’t found permanent, gainful employment, and that tiny baby of ours sort of made that whole scrimping-by thing less artsy than it used to be. So, knowing that our parents at least had an upstairs bathroom, and extra hands to help us hold our new life, we got over ourselves and decided to move in with them at the end of September.
And then: I got a full-time job plus a section of Intro to Creative Writing to teach. And we moved to Massachusetts. And we’re still trying to figure out how all this happened in less than a week.
Now, we’ve been at our new place for almost a month, and I’m firmly fixed in a new, oddly bifurcated schedule. I work a full-time office position at Gordon College during the weekdays, and then teach a 3-hour class on Monday nights. I come home on the other nights to interact with my son, make dinner, eat dinner, interact a little more, put my son and wife to bed, and then grade papers til 10:30–only to start it all over again.
Our apartment is a lot smaller than our last place. It’s supposed to be interim while I navigate this new job situation–something tiny and cheap to help us replenish the empty silo of our savings.
For now, the spare room is dense with the tentacles of slightly-unpacked boxes. My writing desk is there, in front of the window, overlooking a modest thatch of pine and stone. It calls to me like a reflective ex–remember the good times? But, it is covered–covered–with our detritus. The things we swore we (ok, I) we still needed. A lamp without a lightbulb, an out-of-tune ukulele, a photo printer with a missing piece, but wouldn’t it be nice if we someday found it?, etc.
It’s an obvious metaphor, but it’s an apt one. My life is covered with my life. This year, as my wife has said, is our son’s year–he only gets one first year. All those dreams of burrowing close to my moleskine, inhaling the scent of cheap ink, getting my book published, engaging in interfaith work that actually goes somewhere restorative–these things have to wait. It is not the negation of self that I keep lying awake wondering about. I may not fully understand why my writing is on hiatus, but it would be ludicrous to pretend that pile of stuff isn’t there, and doesn’t need sorting.