Unpack (v.) to undo; remove the contents
It’s undoing me.
The crinkle of paper and crunch of cardboard. Treasures are mixed with trash and the sorting feels like it will never end. I have probably requested a dumpster once a day for the last two months—not that I’d have the energy or guts to fill it yet.
I attack boxes on Saturdays, working feverishly to free the books and linens and glass. Cardboard is a weak enemy. The battle has finally waned, giving way to piles that I’ll move around for the next few months.
Unpack (v.) to unburden or reveal
Revealing is also the undoing.
Unpacking ourselves with new people, new circles, new places. Deciding how much to share. Listening for safe people. Tentatively adding to small conversations. Speaking when I shouldn’t and replaying the conversation a hundred times, wishing I could snatch back a word or two or twelve. It feels like a small miracle that we ever find anyone to love us the way so many have.
These boxes that hold our hearts are closed with much better tape. We poke holes in the top to let in a bit of air, but we aren’t really exposed to the light yet. It’s coming as surely as the mums and pumpkins on stoops, but for now, the promise is enough. This step is long, and it is hard to know when it’s done.
Back to unpacking.