Immersion, Idaho Springs

In preparation for Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, on Sunday I participated in a mikveh - ritual immersion - with a group of women from a Renewal congregation, Nevei Kodesh, of Boulder, CO. Whereas last year I immersed in the brisk waters of a Connecticut pond, this year I dunked in some very hot springs. The facilitator of this ritual, Eve Ilsen, asked us to use the drive into the mountains to quietly contemplate what it was we wanted to leave behind in the water so that we could begin the new year with a clean slate. She explained that water, which surrounded us in the womb, has the power to absorb emotional stress, restoring us to equilibrium. Certainly that has been my experience with open water swimming.

As a passenger in someone else's car, I had plenty of time to think about this but became overwhelmed by the number of choices of behaviors and patterns that were candidates for being washed away. About half way on our silent journey the driver began a somewhat complicated Hebrew chant to which I hummed along while I struggled to remember the words to, and tune of, one of my favorites: Elohai neshama she-natata-bi tehora, hi. It means: The soul that God has given me is pure. Getting in touch with our goodness - and that of others - can be difficult especially if it requires excavating through accumulated layers of hurt, pain, disappointment, frustration and anger.

Approaching the hot springs, the driver asked if any of us wanted to share our kavanah, or intention, for the mikveh. Knowing the power of articulating my thoughts, I told the three other women that I wanted to drop negativity, starting my new year and my new life in Colorado without any traces of it. There are many forms and shapes of negativity, of course, but like an umbrella insurance policy I figured I would try to cover as many bases as possible in a single word. Another woman shared that she wanted to leave behind the difficulties and emotional pain of the preceding year.

We entered the Indian Springs spa and headed to the locker room to prepare for our immersion, removing all makeup, nail polish and jewelry and showering thoroughly. The hot springs themselves were located in underground caves that, except for the padded walkways, had a biblical feel. They were dimly lit with low ceilings and signs urged people to respect the sacredness of the space and the solitude of the bathers. Luckily for our group of nine women there were no other clients there, giving us plenty of privacy. Removing our towels, we circled one of the pools and reviewed the customs of the mikveh: a minimum of three complete immersions, reciting the blessing after the first one. We were told that we could dip as many times as we needed. Looking around our group - ages 20-60 something, of many shapes and sizes - I was struck by how much younger and how much more themselves everyone looked without their clothes on. The act of disrobing alone helped us each leave behind some of what obscures our neshamot (souls).

Based on where I was standing, I was part of the first pair of women to immerse side by side, separated by a railing, in a somewhat narrow and dark pool. There were three steps into the pool, each one allowing a greater degree of adjustment to the temperature. After descending and standing in the water for several seconds, I thought I was used to the heat but when I immersed my head I felt somewhat panicky and quickly stood up. The heat made it difficult for me to relax and focus on my intention, even though I immersed four times, twice in each direction. Luckily, after the others went, I had an opportunity to do it again - a double dipping of sorts. Now accustomed to the heat I was able to stay in the water long enough to relax and let go.

I participate in rituals such as this to have a touchstone, a reminder of my intention, knowing full well that the ritual alone will not make negativity disappear from my life instantaneously. Sure enough, at Rosh Hashanah services the following evening, I noticed that my mind was generating some negative chatter, doing its usual thing of comparing, evaluating, analyzing. I sighed inside, remembered my immersion of the previous day, realized that I have a choice and refocused my thoughts.

Insurance, Industrial Classifications, IRS

Earlier this week I spent the better part of two days jumping through various hoops in order to be considered for a more comprehensive health insurance policy that is offered to business groups, as opposed to individuals. In other words, I had to demonstrate that I have a business in Colorado. But since I lack a business history here, I also had to demonstrate that my application was legitimate.

It didn't help matters that last spring I filed for an extension for my 2007 taxes, giving myself until October 15 to send in the paperwork. The underwriter needed to see my return, which doesn't exist....yet. However, my insurance broker got them to agree that it would be sufficient for them to see evidence that I filed for an extension. Until a few years ago, the IRS would routinely send confirmation of extension requests to the taxpayer. But they ended this practice, probably to save money, and so I had no proof that I had requested extra time. I had no choice but to call the IRS and see if they would send me something that indicated that, yes, I had filed for an extension. It took three phonecalls and nearly three hours of waiting on hold (at least they play classical music) before I succeeded in having them fax me the document I needed. The process might have been shorter had I known in advance that I'd need to be in front of the fax machine when it arrived, as they won't fax personal tax information somewhere else. Since I didn't have a fax number, I got one from Efax, and then - while the IRS employee waited patiently on the line - downloaded the software so I could open it. It worked. I felt a tiny sense of triumph over the vast tax bureaucracy.

Compared to that, registering my business in Colorado was a breeze. I registered my trade name - Mixed Media Mosaics - at the Secretary of State's Office online, then took proof of my registration to the Colorado tax department to get my license to do business. Before hand I had looked at this form online to see what information I'd need to provide. They ask applicants for their industrial classification - it turns out it is 711510, Independent Artists, Writers, Performers, which lumps a lot of people under a single category including but not limited to: storytellers, poets, orchestra conductors, taxidermists, ethnic dancers, motivational speakers, art restorers and celebrity spokepersons. In previous years, according to the website I consulted, many of these job titles were separately classified.

Then it was off to the City and County of Denver Treasury Division to get a license to collect their sales tax, separate from the state tax. Whoever called my home state "Taxachusetts" had not been to Colorado, where certain cities, counties and districts collect all kinds of taxes. When I sell my art here, I will charge a tax rate of 7.72% that includes the state sales tax, the Denver sales tax, the Regional Transportation District tax, the Football Stadium District tax and the Scientific and Cultural Facilities District tax. And then I get to pay a monthly Occupational Privilege Tax (OPT) for the privilege of being in business. This would all be quite entertaining if I could file my sales tax returns online, as I did in Massachusetts, simply entering in my revenues and having the website calculate what I owe. Unfortunately, Colorado is about four years away from having such a system in place. So, I will receive personalized tax booklets on which to write in ink who is getting how much tax. Perhaps when I fill out my first one I will blog about it under the title "Insane-making". Meanwhile, Colorado is kind enough to offer free tax classes to help newbies decipher it all.

But all of my phoning, faxing and filling out forms paid off. My application for the health coverage I wanted was approved.

Inflatable

Since arriving in Denver, and with the exception of the first night when I stayed at the home of my studio landlord, I have been camping out in my art studio, sleeping on a cotton mattress loaned to me by my landlord. He told me I could hang out here until I find a place to live and, while I did not intend to stay here a long time, the arrangement is proving to be somewhat convenient and helpful.

For one thing, I haven't completely decided if I want to rent an apartment or buy a place to live, so staying here is giving me a bit more time to think about that and keep exploring different neighborhoods and options. Furthermore, the combination of my cross-country drive, the adjustment to the altitude and to the realization that I actually did move left me feeling a bit shell-shocked and exhausted for the first several days after my arrival. I am grateful that I did not have to look for a place to live during a time of mental discombobulation. Finally, sleeping here makes my transition feel more like an adventure and it's a reminder of how far I've come in my personal growth - even a few years ago I would not have considered doing this, as it would have seemed too bohemian, and I probably would have been too afraid of arriving in a new city without a place to live or, more likely, afraid of what others might think of that.

But, it turns out that arriving in a new city with no place to live is not really a big deal. People are not looking at me cross-eyed. I have a small refridgerator here, a microwave, an electric tea kettle, a place to park my car, a bathroom and coin-operated laundry in the basement. And, of course, wireless access. The showers don't work but that merely motivated me to take advantage of a free introductory membership at the local YMCA, where I enjoyed yoga and dance classes in addition to the sauna and showers. And with my free trial about to expire, now I've found a yoga studio with showers a few minutes' drive from my studio - all the more incentive to develop a regular yoga practice, something I've been wanting to do anyway.

When I slow down and take each day as it comes, solutions to my immediate logistical challenges keep presenting themselves. And so it was when my landlord - a portrait photographer - asked to borrow his mattress back temporarily. Sometimes he uses it as a prop when photographing infants, allowing them to crawl all over it. Not wishing to engage in further mattress exchanges, and not wanting to continue to impose on him, I told him that he should hang onto the mattress and I'd find something else to use. I did bring a camping mattress with me, but it is quite thin. After going for a short hike yesterday afternoon to clear my head and stretch my legs, I noticed a Bed Bath & Beyond on the other side of the highway. I pulled off the road and found my way into the store. It turns out that they were having a sale and the more deluxe inflatable mattress was 30% off. I took a twin size and put it in my shopping cart. Arriving at the checkout, I couldn't decide which line to get into and hung back for a few minutes while others got in the queue. My indecisiveness proved to have a purpose. When I finally chose a register, I ended up behind a customer with an entire deck of store coupons and a generous spirit. She asked me if I'd like a coupon (yes!) and, after flipping through her stash, handed me one for 20% off. It had already expired but the store accepted it, no questions asked. Knowing that I got a good deal helped me sleep better at night, and the mattress itself was quite comfortable, too.

Tomorrow I will resume looking for a place to live.

Installed, Invested

I have lived in many different apartments. Even in the ones I owned I did not invest much time, effort or money in trying to optimize the lighting. Somehow, the decisions involved in choosing floor lamps and hanging light fixtures seemed overwhelming, not to mention permanent. Especially with lighting that would require installation on a wall or a ceiling, selecting a particular fixture for a given room and hiring an electrician to hook it up seemed akin to making an irrevocable commitment. Table lamps, however, didn't stir up as much angst - they could be moved from place to place or sold - so I would buy those instead. As a result, I suffered with sub-par lighting in most of my living spaces and even in my Boston area art studio rather than install the "wrong" lights and then feel compelled to live with the mistake.

But the bigger blunder and spiritual error was not committing to my comfort and not meeting the needs I had at various times, even if these needs were to change and would therefore require an adjustment in how I addressed them and perhaps an additional cost. Part of the reason for moving myself and my stuff 2,000 miles away was to remind myself that I am starting over, hitting the reset button on many areas of my life, that I am not going to keep doing the same thing over and over again.

On Monday I spent a good chunk of the afternoon at Home Depot in the lighting department, choosing track lights, connectors, and dimmer switches. Add to that some shelving components and a refridgerator, and I also spent a good chunk of change. But the person who wrote "spent a good chunk of change" was listening to the voice of scarcity, e.g. my inner cheapskate, which views every dime spent as a depletion of fixed and limited amount of resources. If I switch hats, to that of the voice of abundance, I could instead write that I made a large investment in my new space and in myself, in that I committed to creating a functional work environment to which I'll attract buyers of my art.

On Tuesday morning the handyman showed up at 9:30 a.m. sharp to install the shelves and the track lights. When he removed the existing fluorescent fixture from the ceiling we noticed a short metal pipe protruding, a relic of the era when this room was lit by a gas lamp. In order to cover it up he needed additional materials, plus he needed some components that the Home Depot staff hadn't been able to show me, so off he went to spend yet another chunk of change. To distract my inner cheapskate from counting the minutes that he was gone, time which she was paying for, I primed and painted the shelves that the Home Depot staff had cut for me out of a large sheet of fiberboard.

Still, the cheapskate has been obsessing about the total cost - umm...investment - that my higher self had made in my well-being and in my mosaic art, which deserves to be properly illuminated. My inner cheapskate keeps yammering that I should have looked for a less expensive handyman (this guy had a reasonable rate, came recommended and had worked in this building), shopped around for cheaper lights (well, I did get the most basic kind) and is still coming up with ways that I could have done it for less. But, I knew that if I had spent too much time trying to tweak it to get the best price possible, my cheapskate might have talked me out of it altogether.

Now, at least, the tracks and lamps are installed. The investment in a supportive and functional work space has been made. The only thing left to negotiate with my inner cheapskate is how much we'll spend on - I mean invest in! - full-spectrum 50-watt bulbs.

Interstate: Illuminated

I'm in Wyoming, a place that once seemed very far away, a place that I might only see in a movie. Driving through the most eastern part of the state I was struck by its lush-looking landscape. I say "looking" because the combination of prairie grasses, which are yellowish green, and darker grass make it appear as if the ground is covered in a pale chartreuse velour. It looks particularly lush when illuminated by bright afternoon sun. While the countryside I drove through was mostly flat, occasionally there were these odd mounds, bumps and cones, some whose shapes reminded me of extinct volcanos, creating a sense of otherworldliness. It was as if the earth had been undulating and then, at some point, had stopped moving, freezing these mounds in place.

Seeing the different shades of greens, yellows and browns, the textures of the grasses, the shapes of the hills, the silhouettes of cattle grazing and the bright blue sky made me think about how I might paint such a landscape, should I ever attempt to paint again. I wondered how one could capture the sweep of the sky and the seeming endlessness of the land.

Interstate: Inns and Ice Machines

This trip has given me the opportunity to sample some of America's typical roadside accommodations, the no-nonsense, not too many frills hotels that cluster around major exits on this country's interstate highways. Interestingly, the worst one (a depressing looking Holiday Inn in Milesburg, PA) was also the most expensive, even with the AAA discount. And breakfast wasn't included! I've also slept at an AmericInn (Albert Lea, Minnesota), a Days Inn (Rapid City, SD) and now a La Quinta (Cheyenne, WY). I ended up at these hotels because they happened to be in the places where I decided to stop driving on a given night; I certainly did not make these particular lodgings as my destination. With the exception of AmericInn, where I couldn't connect to the wireless, all had great WiFi and extremely mediocre coffee. And I gotta mention those ice machines! You know, the kind that dispense ice cubes into plastic buckets with a loud clunking noise. It is definitely part of the required soundtrack for a drive across the country.

Interstate: Impressions

Marketers and advertisers know that it takes a minimum of seven, if not more, impressions to convert someone into a customer. That potential customer will need to see or hear at least seven advertisements or product mentions before they will take action. The marketers in South Dakota are well acquainted with this fact, thus the Interstate is lined with billboards that announce restaurants and attractions that are hundreds of miles away.

For example, for hours before I arrived to Wall, SD, population 800 or so, I must have seen dozens of billboards with simple but tempting graphics and slogans for Wall Drug. In hindsight, I wished I had stopped to photograph each and every one of them, although that might have slowed me down quite a bit.

The theme was simple. Each billboard emphasized a different items available at Wall Drug. One sign focused on homemade donuts, and had an image of a chocolate frosted one. Another boasted 5 cent coffee. A third showed cowboy boots. A fourth had a picture of cherry pie. A fifth announced that T-Rex was at Wall Drug. A sixth said, "Only 50 miles to Wall Drug". And on and on, mile after mile, billboard after billboard, to the point that I got curious about what kind of place Wall Drug was. Yup, they totally snagged me with their clever ads.

After soaking up the Badlands I headed to Wall Drug. Leaving the park, sign after sign informed me that I was getting closer to the 5 cent coffee. I pulled up in front of what looked like an old western store front. Wall Drug is basically a small mall filled with cowboy boots, food, games, gimmicks and more. It is probably the largest employer of this tiny town, which counts on a steady stream of visitors from the national park.

If I had been less tired, I might have lingered at Wall Drug to fully absorb the kitsch, but I wanted to eat something before traveling one more hour in waning daylight to get to Rapid City, SD. I ditched over-the-top Wall Drug in favor of the unpretentious Badlands Bar, a local joint that seemed anachronistic. Both the bartender and a few of the cowboy hatted customers smoked cigarettes as ceiling fans whirred.

The man who took my order had longish gray hair, a handlebar moustache and a friendly demeanor.

I asked him if the buffalo burger came with anything on it.

"Nope, we don't have lettuce or tomato," he said, simply stating the facts without apology. This place was really about the meat and french fried potatoes.

"Could you some put onion on it?" I asked.

"Well, I can bring you some onion on the side," he replied. I hadn't yet noticed the sign on the wall that let customers know that this place was not Burger King....you don't have it your way.

He brought over a cardboard beer bottle tote filled with condiments: two squirt bottles, one with ketchup and one with mustard, and two recycled Corona bottles, one filled with pepper and another with salt. He placed a small plastic container with chopped white onions and a white plastic fork next to it.

The buffalo burger was a bit overcooked but I dumped a lot of onions and ketchup on it, washed it down with french fries and a coke, and in its own way was just fine. Just as, in its own way, even the mildly smoky air was refreshing.

Interstate: Interior, SD

My route has taken me on I-90 through Wisconsin, Minnesota and now South Dakota. The further west I travel, the higher the speed limit. In South Dakota it is 75 miles per hour, so traffic flows at about 85-90 mph. At that rate one can cover a lot of ground. Depending on one's perspective, there is either very little or quite a lot to see. The swaths of farmland are, for the most part, flat. They are slightly less green than in Wisconsin or Minnesota. There are the occasional buffalo and herds of cattle. The sky, however, is vast and filled with different patterns and textures of clouds, some of which appear to be in vertical layers, as if they were fluffy skyscrapers. In late afternoon, the landscape is bathed in gorgeous light, rendering even the flattest of plains breathtakingly beautiful and making the pain of a day sitting in the car worth it.


Today I whizzed by a sign announcing that I was entering the Mountain Time Zone, gaining an hour in less than a second. I decided to spend my extra 60 minutes of sunlight during my visit to the Badlands National Park, in Interior, SD. From the highway, dotted only with round bales of hay and, pardon the pun, corny billboards every few miles exhorting travelers to visit the Corn Palace - "You'll Be A-maized!" and "It's All Ears!" (yes, I pulled off the highway to visit it) - you can't even imagine that just a few miles away are magnificent rock formations that form the Badlands. Created over the millenia by evaporating water that left red stripes of sediment sandwiched between lighter stone, the Badlands appear to be simultaneously ancient and futuristic. From certain angles the silhouettes of the craggy rocks seem to be castles in the sky, overlooking the grassy prairie where rabbits, elk and - of course - prairie dogs wander and graze. It is otherwordly, reminding me a little bit of Turkey's Cappadocia, and I doubt that the dozens of photographs I took will do it justice. It is a place probably best experienced in a 24-hour period, seeing both sunset and sunrise amidst the astonishing topography. Having said that, I don't regret not planning to spend the night there. That most likely would have involved booking accommodations ahead of time and, therefore, seeing pictures of the park beforehand. I went not knowing what I would be seeing and enormously enjoyed the surprise.

Interstate: Intimacy, Inflate

My visit in Evanston was leisurely and relaxing. My friend, whom I've known since seventh grade, is a busy career woman and mother of three young girls and yet she pampered me to the point of embarrassment. She insisted on including my laundry in one of her many daily loads and made sure I was well fed, well rested and well sugared; we both dipped into her stash of York Peppermint Patties. Perhaps her caring for my physical needs was a way to re-establish some intimacy between us. Over the years, partly due to geographical distance but mostly to differing life choices and my reactions to those, we had grown apart. I was glad for an excuse for a brief visit and to spend some time with her daughters, ages 8, 5 and 3 1/2.

To my delight, the children took to me almost immediately and before I knew it I was being recruited to draw, do other art projects, and sing and dance to the Mamma Mia CD. It was like taking a trip back into childhood, but this time having some little sisters. I learned that the two oldest girls were absolute Hoola pros, effortlessly Hoola-ing for minutes on end while doing various tricks with the hoop. I was an enthusiastic audience and they convinced me to try it, too. I was able to keep the hoop aloft for about five seconds before it, along with my ego, crashed to the floor.

A middle child myself, I couldn't resist the charms of the middle girl, also a sensitive soul, who insisted on sitting next to me at dinner on Friday night and who invited me to watch her first soccer game on Sunday. I decided to see the game and then continue on my journey, but when I went to pack up my car late Sunday morning I noticed it had a completely flat tire. For a brief moment I experienced the same mixture of helplessness and inertia as when I left my mother's house - if I have a flat, how will I ever leave? I snapped out of it fairly quickly, realizing how lucky I was to get a flat tire while at my friend's home, rather than on a highway in the middle of nowhere.

Within 30 minutes of calling AAA, a tow truck operator arrived to change the tire, which had been punctured by a nail. I brought it into a body shop in Skokie, IL and soon enough they had patched and properly inflated it. I was good to go, if only I knew which direction to take. My mental fog still hadn't cleared enough to reveal a preferred route. My friend's husband, kindly but also a bit protectively, offered to let me borrow a GPS device for the rest of my trip, so at least I'd know where I was at all times. I declined - the AAA office in Massachusetts had loaded me up with tour books and maps for every state I was bound to traverse. And part of having an adventure is, occasionally, getting lost, pulling over and checking a map or asking for directions. Besides, I couldn't decide where to go so having the ability to type in a destination and map a route wouldn't have solved my immediate problem.

By the time I was roadworthy the soccer game had ended but it was still early enough to keep driving so I decided to head to Wisconsin. Shortly after crossing the state border I saw a huge sign for the Mars Cheese Castle. That sounded colorful, local and a bit kitschy. It was. I purchased some smoke string cheese, a sourdough roll, two chocolate bars and a half decaf, half regular coffee, poured by a sullen employee. My spirits lifted again and, on my own again, I knew that I would enjoy the rest of my trip, whichever way I ended up going.

Interstate: I.D.I.O.T.S.

On the second day of my trip I whizzed through the rest of Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Indiana before getting to Evanston, Illinois. The scenery was mostly bucolic, with the exception of stinky Gary, Indiana, but at a spotless and contemporary rest stop in Ohio I spotted a trio of wide women wearing lavender T-shirts that said on the back:

I lluminated
D aughters
I nspired
O f
T he
S pirit

On the front was a cross.

I didn't have the chutzpah to ask them why they were self-described idiots.

Interstate: Itinerary, Imperfect

The first of several postings on my long-distance car trip from Boston to Denver. Wireless access has been sporadic so these are not real-time postings.

I left the Boston area, specifically my mother's house, on Thursday, September 4, at around noon. I did not have a map or an exact itinerary, I just knew that I wanted to arrive in the Chicago area by either Friday evening or Saturday morning to visit a friend. My car was packed, but a bit carelessly. I had thrown my cosmetics into a shoebox and put that in the back seat, along with several suitcases, two yoga mats, my sleeping bag, a camping mattress, a bag of books, and a few milk crates filled with financial and personal documents. Most of the people reading this blog would not leave for a 2,000+ mile car trip in such haste. And I suspect that many of them would have carefully plotted and planned the route, figuring out ahead of time where they would be spending the night and what sights they wanted to see along the way. Perhaps they would have consulted other people about hotels, restaurants, road conditions, the cheapest gas stations. That is certainly one way to travel, but that isn't always my way.

After years of living in a place where I increasingly didn't want to be, and with the accumulated inertia weighing on me like a leaden blanket that grew heavier by the hour, I genuinely feared that if I didn't just go at that moment that I would never leave. And after packing up my studio and my apartment, which involved much heavy lifting and the emotionally difficult act of sorting and discarding possessions, I didn't have the capacity to plan anything, to predict what route I might want to take. Well-meaning people asked me how I planned to get from Boston to Denver and I simply could not answer them. I really had no idea, I had not looked into it. In a sense it did not matter if my route took me north, south or due west. I just needed to hit the road and trust that I would have the trip that I needed to be having at this time. Trying to optimize, strategize or otherwise try to create a more perfect trip was simply not something my brain could handle.

Still, I was not a completely reckless traveler. My first stop was at the AAA Office in Newton, MA. I walked in and told them I was leaving for Evanston, IL and could they please get me a TripTik, which is their customized travel booklet.

"Did you order one?" the man behind the counter asked.

"No," I said.

"TripTiks take days to prepare," the man informed me, looking at me as if I were slightly insane. Maybe that is how I looked.

"Oh," I said, unfazed. "It says on your website that you create them on demand. I had no idea they were so complicated."

"Well, we might be able to do one quickly for you. Where are you going?"

I gave him my friend's address and told him that I only needed a route and a place to stay that was mid-way between Boston and Evanston. To simplify the task, I told him that I did not need information on every single attraction, shopping mall and restaurant along the way.

"Could you come back in 2-3 hours?" he asked.

"No," I said, "I need to leave soon so I can get in enough daylight driving hours. Perhaps I could just take a map?"

"Well," he replied, as if he were afraid to let me loose on the road without a TripTik, "Have you had lunch yet? If not, come back in an hour. I'll have it then."

It turns out that TripTiks, if requested with a smile, take less than an hour to prepare. When I returned 60 minutes later, after having gassed up, bought some food and visited the ATM, it was already completed and had my name on it. They had highlighted the AAA recommended route in orange pen, and all I had to do was follow it. That was pretty much all I was capable of at that time, following someone else's directions. That night I made it as far as Milesburg, PA on I-80 after making what for my family is a ritual stop at Rein's Deli in Vernon, CT.

Interchange

My launching pad for my upcoming move is my mother's house. She has generously allowed me to fill her screened in porch and garage with the pared down contents of my studio and my apartment, which will soon be loaded onto two pods for transport to Colorado. Not knowing where exactly I'd be moving to, I have spent months slowly whittling down my possessions to only those things that I absolutely need, really love or can't easily replace.

The original idea was that I'd load up a trailer, attach it to my car and drive out with as little as possible. Then I learned that my car, with all wheel drive, is not really designed for towing, and that the trailer that it could safely carry wouldn't fit very much anyway. Not to mention that the installed trailer hitch was quite rusted and might not be terribly secure.

Plan B was to rent a truck, load up my belonging, attach my car onto a flatbed trailer behind it and drive the contraption out West. For many weeks I had a romantic attachment to the idea of a sola long-distance truck trip and I refused to consider other options. It seemed adventurous, a bit challenging, something that I wouldn't normally do...a way to step out of my box and signal the transition I am making. Then I regained my sanity and realized that renting, loading, driving and unloading a truck would probably be much more stressful, not to mention more expensive, than shipping my belongings in pods.

The pods changed the plan. On a per pod basis, it was cheaper to order two, rather than one, and since I am moving to two locations - an art studio first, and eventually an apartment or house, which I haven't found yet - it made sense to sort my belongings based on their destination. And as I am paying for two pods, I might as well fill them, rather than leaving each half full. Right...? Hmm.

Knowing that I have extra space, my mother has been wondering if I'd take back many of the items I've deposited at her house at other times when I've moved far away. It has become a bit of a ritual - she takes in my abandoned furnishings thinking that one day I might wish to be reunited with them. Her home sometimes looks like a museum of my past lives, filled with bookcases from two former apartments, tchotchkes I've collected overseas, lamps and wicker baskets I no longer needed or wanted, clothing that doesn't fit or suit me anymore, a love seat and a wooden chair. By and large I have refused to reclaim my old things, not wishing to be saddled with furniture for which I don't yet have a place, but over the weekend she was home cleaning, organizing and attempting to tempt me with her things - vintage Mexican baskets, pots and pans she found at a garage sale, her wet-dry vac.

No thanks, I said, to most of what was proposed for interchange, even if the items were perfectly good, useful or attractive. I wanted to try to hew to my initial vision of arrriving with as little as possible, even though my, ahem, minimalist holdings do occupy many boxes and take up several cubic feet. However, she did persuade me to adopt several blankets - useful for protecting furniture - a small boxed set of matching utensils and a small hooked rug with a butterfly design, something I made as a child. That reminded me of a vintage woolen rug from Mexico, also with a butterfly pattern, so I added that, too, to my pile....

When the pods arrive - supposedly soon - I will try to load and lock them as quickly as possible, preventing more things from stowing away to Colorado.