I had planned to start packing on Monday. We are moving in 33 days, and we have lots of stuff. My goal is to purge about a quarter of what we own. But I am feeling over-whelmed and scared about the future so it is easy for me to find other things to do. The actual act of packing makes those feelings sharper. So yesterday I went to the pool, and napped and read mysteries. Those things did not keep my insecurity from rearing its head but it did prevent me from doing anything productive.
A conversation about writing with my mom and H helped me to push past my feelings of failure in that area (Why oh why does no one read my blog? And that does mean I am a craptastic writer?) We talked about what my goals are for writing and how my expectations might not be realistic (what a shocker, right?) But I also got very excited about a mystery series I'd like to write, and I think I got them excited too. So the day wasn't a total loss.
But today I determined to start going through our books. I had sworn to be merciless because let's face it, moving boxes of books in July is going to suck. I started with the homeschooling/kids books and managed to go through all of H's school stuff at the same time. I weeded through those books quickly, and ended up with three piles: recycling, used book store, and keepers. As I was doing this, H decided to go through his Spanish language books, and it hit me that I needed to go through my religious studies books. A pang hits, and I consider just putting it off.
My first impulse is to throw them all out but I suspect that is a petty impulse that I will regret. However another part of my brain says "Why are you hauling all these books when you're not going to do this ever again?"
"I think I'll go through my religious studies books," I tell H. "I suppose I shouldn't just throw them all out."
H looks at me in surprise.
"Ummm...no you shouldn't throw them. You might use them again."
And I realize that there is still a bit of hope inside me that I will use them again. I am not ready to fully let go and say "I"m done." But there is no peace with this realization. Realistically there is very little chance that I will ever get a Ph.D. H has at least four years to get his Ph.D, and who knows where he will end up. I suppose I could apply to Emory but if I didn't get into a state university what are my chances of getting into an elite Ivy League university? Plus do I really want to drive a four hours a day to do school? But I am not ready to let go of something that I have been doing for a long time now. Something I thought I was pretty good at. And as I go through the books, it is only a small pile that I am giving away. The rest will come with me perhaps to only serve as reminders of what I am not doing.