Making lists

When she had any free time, she made lists, millions of lists. I’d find them all over the house—stuff to pick up, stuff to get rid of, people to call, people to make sure to say good-bye to, questions about cleaning the apartment, about which way to ship stuff, questions to ask Evan about London schools—even a list just of things she knew about Evan’s boys, Tony and Julian. That’s my main memory of her in that time, sitting at the kitchen table, entirely surrounded by little poxes of Chinese food, leaning on her elbows with one hand in her hair. Making lists.

Tamsin, by Peter S. Beagle

While I found this amusing when I read Tamsin a couple months ago, it’s true. I have so many lists now that they’re confused, and I’m not sure which is which. I keep second-guessing myself. My major packing day has coincided with my off day, and the little things are getting me all Wrong. My favorite knit hat from Laura has unraveled. I found a dead gnat on my popsicle–now Contaminated, and I had already eaten most of it. I have yet to come up with a cure for feeling contaminated. Ugh. And the day had started so well.

Peace I leave you, my peace I give you. I do not give as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not be afraid. So much to do, so much stress, so much need for grace and patience.

I’m too efficient a packer. I’ve managed to fit 95% of my clothing into one suitcase and it’s 9 lbs overweight. Argh. I even still had room left! Now I have to rethink this.