Little House in the Big City

I love the sound the tea kettle makes right before it whistles. Now if only I could enjoy my tea without this ass-raging headcold. I even took some generic Theraflu, breastmilk be damned (oh yeah, and she slept better too) last night. I enjoyed the speedy high and simultaneous unwillingness-to-move a little too much, and then the panic set in around 1 am, but Ti coming to bed at 2 helped snap me out of it and get me to sleep.

I don’t even know if I’m gauging my reality right, but my anxiety is at an all time high, unless you count other times in my life where the speed was of much better quality. And at this point, the ephedrines have worn off and I’m drinking mate instead. I can’t smoke pot either, because all roads lead to midnight anxiety. No, I don’t need medication, I need to know where we’re going to live in 3 weeks, and more impoartantly, I need to know who is going to move us. We’ve done a lot of prepreparation, but still, this house isn’t very ready to be someone else’s yet and with two small kids and nowhere to go but our parents’ its hard to think about packing it all up ourselves and what? Putting it in storage? Sure, I’m praying that Canadian labor approves our job like today, although any time this week would be fine, but the more realistic estimate is in about two more weeks. Which may be too late for us to wait for the whole free movers thing. I probably didn’t need to sell the house so fast, but I was so eager to, after living in it for so long, its weird to be here writing that that is what keeps me going: my enthusiasm for going somewhere new. That manifest destiny thing is scary powerful stuff. My stepmom and I were talking about it and the whole “illusion” of progress that keeps driving humans on this odd capitalistic treadmill. She’s reading some book about it who’s title and author I can’t remember, but I instantly checked the references in back and sure enough he cites Jared Diamond, my all time favorite nonfiction writer.

So what am I doing this week? Packing? Throwing out all the clothes in our closet that we never wear? No, silly, I’m frantically trying to finish piecing my sister’s quilt so that on our subsequent drive to Canada and all those waits at border patrol I can be working on the applique. At this point I’m pretty confident we will be immigrating eventually, but I fear the poor timing is all. I was actually panicking last night about having to take the quilt blocks down and pack up my sewing room and the machines ( I am bringing all four sewing machines to Canada because you can never have too many sewing machines, and I’m going to need that treadle for sewing when we all run out of oil and electricity gets rationed). When they are all packed or in storage, along with all my fabric and old scrap clothes and jeans and patterns and books, What will I do? So I am shoring up enough handwork on this quilt that hopefully I can do that for a while while living with my mother, with my mother in law, or out of some van down by the river. Just preparing for this move has me thinking a lot about the four generations of quilters that have preceded me in living out west and hanging onto something sacred of womanhood.


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