Open Book

My last day at work fell on the first day of Spring. Symbolism abounds.

I don't know how many of you who read here were with me when I first started blogging five years ago or so, but the whole reason I started writing in this medium was because of my frustration with my professional situation at the time. It was a miserable period of time, and it showed in nearly every post. I hated my job, the circumstances of my company, and was generally agitated by knowing there was no purpose to it all.

So, I whined. A lot. And kvetched. And bemoaned. And then made lame-ish attempts to laugh it off.

Until one day, miracle of miracles, I landed a new position with a vibrant company, affording me challenge, and creative possibility, and, frankly, meaning. It offered me a career I loved with people I respected. It was an opportunity of a lifetime, and I expected to spend the rest of my working lifetime making the most of it.

Yesterday was my last day on that job. My last day with a company whose core values I appreciate and leadership I valued. My last day with a group of co-workers I adore from the bottom of my heart.

As I loaded the last box of personal belongings into the back seat and pulled out of the parking lot, I cried like a baby, choking back happy-sad tears. My heart broke just a little as I drove away for the last time.

I'll miss it. All of it.

And I'm so very grateful to feel that way.

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For the past couple of months, a series of mental milestones had been established inside my head. It began with the arrival of the new year and my husband's first day on his new job in West Virginia. The milestones continued: giving my notice at work, putting the house on the market, selling the house, hiring my replacement, pulling off a successful 3-day conference, training my replacement, hitting one last deadline, and, finally, making it through my final day at work.

All of those things, you see, had to come to pass before the move could be allowed to  be seen as "real".

Now (as of yesterday in point of fact) all of those things have come and gone. Every milestone has been met, and the unofficial mental demarcation between Raleigh and Charleston has been breached at last.

This means only one thing.

The freaking out can now commence in earnest.

There is nothing left to do but focus packing up one life and unpacking the next.

And by "nothing left to do", let it be known that I have managed to pull off yet another convenient mental trick, often referred to as denial, wherein the cleaning, boxing, loading, relocating, unboxing and unloading do not exist in any conscious sense. Only in ambiguous, "ohmygod, don't think too much" terms.

Change is exciting. Going home is inspiring. Reuniting with my husband is enticing.

Moving is a great big fat giant pain in my ass.

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Then again, everything worthwhile requires some effort on our parts to make happen, doesn't it? So, honestly? I'm not complaining. Bitching a bit from the cleaning fumes clouding my brain, but not complaining. Not really.

Because this move?

Well, this move represents so many things.

A clean slate. A fresh start. An inspiration. A new beginning. A blessed continuation. An opportunity. An affirmation.

A coming of age.

A going home.

An arrival.

One week from today, my "here" will be "there". 

Let the happily ever after begin.

Rainy Day Randomnimity

There's one thing I can say about spring time in North Carolina: it's a weather junkie's dream. In the past eight days we've had snow accompanied by frigid air, bright sunshine bearing eighty degree temps, and three solid days of icy cold rain. It's craziness. And, naturally, the craptastical portion of the precipitation program always seems to fall on the weekends. Normally, this would be bitch fest worthy, but right now, prepping for the move, the lack of motivation to get out and about is probably a good thing.

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When we were staging the house to sell it, we trucked a double-digit multitude of loads to the landfill, the local Goodwill collection center, and a small, rented for the purpose, storage unit. Given that, you might wonder what could possibly be left to pack? Too much, as it turns out.

The good news is: the movers are packing us. The bad news is: to get ready for them, I have to separate all the personal things we want to take ourselves, trash the liquids and hazardous materials, and bring every last item down from the upper level attic. How great would it be to just walk out the front door, drive to Charleston, and walk in the front door of our new house to find everything in place? Pretty great. But it would require the magic of Sleeping Beauty, and, while I am a professionally ranked sleeper, my beauty is more in line with the Cinderella's evil step-mother variety, and evidently not worthy of such fairy tale endings.

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While working around here this morning, I've been trying to imagine where everything will go in the new place. The new house is really not new at all; 105 years-old to be exact. It's charming and wonderful and twice as big in square footage as our present abode. That said, it also has narrow passages, smallish rooms, windy stair cases and few closets. Figuring out the puzzle of what goes where - and how it gets there - is going to be a bit of an interesting challenge.

Will the roll top desk fit up the stairs and down the second floor hallway? Will the sofa fit up the narrow, winding back stairs all the way up to the third floor? Will my dishes and small appliances and kitchen ware find adequate homes? It's a mystery!

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This is the first major move (out of six total) we've undertaken that doesn't involve our kids and all of the associated planning required. No worries about schools or pediatricians or Little League or family-oriented neighborhoods. It's a little strange, but in a good way.

Our son will be moving with us - his choice. He'll be staying here until mid-May to finish out the semester, but then will be loading up his own car and heading to West Virginia. I have to admit to being a little surprised by his decision, although for practical reasons, it's probably the right one. He's my late bloomer, that one, and I'm sure he feels that, while he's getting there, he's just not ready, financially or otherwise, to take the last giant leap into full-fledged adulthood. Seeing as he's twenty years old, this might seem a little sad. But I don't read it that way. I think it's actually one of the smartest and most realism-filled examples of his burgeoning maturity to date.

He's always dreamed of going to WVU. Given his attitude and performance during the last couple years of his high school career, we refused to entertain the idea of paying the exorbitant out of state tuition. Much to his dismay. But lately, he's really stepped up (grown up? fingers crossed) and is working hard in his classes at the local community college. He's trying to prove something to us, to be sure, but in the process, I think he's proved something to himself: namely, not only is he capable of doing it, he *wants* to do it. So, his plan is to enroll in a small local college in Charleston, garner the required one year of residency, and then make his own WVU dream come true.

More power to him. As long as he keeps taking long, manly strides toward his self-willed destination, I'm happy to support his efforts.

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I took Maggie Brind'Amour (my kitty) to the vet last week to make sure her shots were all current and to have her checked out for the move. Turns out she has an ear infection that I was totally oblivious to, and now she is sneezing an average of 100 times an hour. Perfect. Or, not to put too fine a point on it, purr-fect.

The drive to Charleston is about five hours. Maggie's longest car trips to date have been short, ten minute jaunts to the vet's office. They gave me some good advice on traveling with cats and offered to prescribe a mild sedative to keep her calm for the duration. I'm really conflicted. On the one hand, she'll be cooped up in her tiny carrier for quite a long time on what I'm sure will seem a freaky, unfamiliar experience. On the other, doping up my cat feels a little selfish, in the sense that (and I cannot lie) if I go that route, it will be more to make the trip easier on me than it will be for her. Not sure how to handle this one.

Any cat experts out there? What would you do?

I blame Facebook. Sort of.

Considering there was a time I could throw up four posts about nothing on any given day, this once a month posting schedule seems a sign of the times. Things have been incredibly busy around here, as you might imagine. Pair that with the fact that I've been utterly consumed by the Facebook experience of late, it's a wonder I even remember the password to this space.

I am going to rectify this situation in the coming days and weeks, for my own sake. Writing here has always served as a thread tethering my sanity in place, allowing me to dump the overflow of my mind, the better to free up those pieces of same required for cognizant thought. Not writing here tends to encourage the slide down the slippery slope of the overwhelmed. I know this to be true; I have five years or so of evidence proving the theory. But knowing and doing are often contrary ideals in my world, in an unstoppable force vs. immovable object sort of way.

This week saw the culmination of a year long effort. I served as programs chair for a conference held here in Raleigh, and after months of planning, worrying, meeting, calling, securing and planning some more, I'm very happy to report that the three day event that started on Wednesday and ended yesterday was a rousing success. I was responsible for 21 sessions and the 32 speakers required to pull them off. Every single one of them showed up on time and performed beyond my wildest expectations. The feedback has been tremendous. But beyond that - the relief in knowing it is finally over has been life affirming.

(Side note: to prove there is balance in all things, the conference came off flawlessly in large part, I am convinced, because of two significant personal crises - my work laptop got stolen the first night, and I rammed the back end of my car into a concrete pillar in the parking deck the second. That these things didn't send me over the mental ledge is a miracle that I can only attribute to my state of calm regarding all things programs and speakers.)

In my mind's eye, I have tended to view this conference week as a not so arbitrary line between then and now. Pre-conference: life as usual, with a few twists. Post-conference: the move, the move, the move and the move.

I have another week and two days left on the job, every hour spoken for between a final deadline and training of my replacement and happy hour celebrations. The good news is my replacement is an experienced, talented and perfectly-suited individual who has already taken on more than I could have hoped. The bad news is my mind is everywhere but there, suffering from the most severe case of short-timer's syndrome I've ever personally experienced.

And on top of it, here we are post-conference, and the reality is, we are eleven days away from loading the trucks and heading north.

Eleven days.

ELEVEN DAYS.

My to-do list is in fact less a list and more a complex labyrinth of spreadsheets. The checked off completed items are few and far between just now, and this morning marks the start of the furious race to the finish.

So what am I doing?

Practicing active avoidance by composing this meaningless post for the sole purpose of delaying the inevitable.

Because while I give myself much credit for my planning and organizational skills (yin), I am nothing if not the Master Procrastinator (yang).

For the next little while, the devil is in the details, every last one of which must be tied up in a bow, T's crossed, I's dotted, go, go, go. No room for procrastination. No room for error. No room for unfounded worries. No room for over-confidence. No room for anything but laser beam focus and the power of willing things to unfold as they have been planned and/or are fated to do.

In my internal reality, part of that process involves brain dumping the superfluous thoughts here. It's part of the formula: clear (mind's) eyes, full hearts, can't lose.

And with that?

Ready.

Set.

Here we go.