House Moving Therapy

LIFE ON THE FLOOR

Have you had your life crash and spill all over the floor, fragments leaking dark red blood and thick black terror, a small puddle for a start but spreading,

spreading

SPREADING?

What is it that got wrecked, disfigured, ripped apart, burnt to the ground?

LOVE? Family? Home?

The humming, sweet routines of the life you’ve long known?

Your vision? Mission? Job?

Health? The time you (vaguely) counted to have left?

MEANING? Purpose?

Truth? TRUST? The stability of the earth’s crust?

The certain answers to the WHO ARE YOU?, what you can and shall and would or would never ever do?

How badly did you break?

Are you whole again, or for the first time ever? The extraordinary gift of some descents into darkness, a gift claimed by so few, yet always there if you refuse to leave without it but refuse to dwell in darkness too? Or, when you undress and touch the seams of truth, are you, rather, superglued?

Have you ever had your life dumped on the floor, this time literally? Drawers pulled out, wardrobe doors flung open

piles of clothes

misshapen hangers

slanting books

scattered papers

bike pump

hammer

smiling sheep

sponges

brushes

cream clean Cif

tangled cables

seaside mug

wrapping paper

filthy rug –

all tripping, slipping hazards,

calling out to you,

calendar declaring your move-out day is tomorrow,

realism demanding it be a week away?

Have you ever felt total disbelief at the amount of possessions you’ve accumulated?

Started sorting from one pile or cupboard only to decide it’s too difficult or undefinable, picked the next, then next, then next, until you returned to the first?

Have you spoken to yourself coolly, rationally that it will all be fine; motivationally, passionately that you wield magic powers and expansive time, while pushing, pushing, pushing back the flood of panic rising in the holes between the words?

Have you made dozens of donation and recycling trips, yet still tied a tight knot around a black bin bag of perfectly usable things?

What did you do with the flowerpots?

The sheets you slept in on your last night?

Oh, you didn’t sleep? You thought you’d be finished by 4 p.m., then midnight, then 3 a.m., then you met the end at sunrise, mopping floors, red capillaries refusing to return home to the white sclera, bed never slept in one last time, a feeling strangely resembling that of separating from a lover without having made love one last time?

I hope you still noticed that that was the most beautiful sunrise you’ve seen in this house. I hope your coffee machine or kettle was not packed, or belonged to the house, and you could have a farewell drink. I hope you laughed (hysterically?) that never-ending night and blazing morning, even if you cried too.

Whether you’ve had your life on the floor one way or the other, or both, welcome.

DOES THIS BOOK BELONG TO YOUR LIBRARY?

This is a book about using the need to sort through physical baggage so as to shift emotional baggage. It is about tolerating material and psychological mess for longer than comfortable so as to move on feeling lighter. It digs deep into my possessions and soul in the hope of showing you new ways to dig deep into yours.

It’s a book for those who want to leave with the rucksack on their back only or need a truck for their possessions. I write of both. I’ve tried both.

It’s a book about house moves which are responsible to the environment, objects and the makers of objects; considerate of the less fortunate; adventurous and cost-efficient. It is about trips to charity shops, recycling facilities and outside of your comfort zone. It is about the lives and happiness of things, our planet and the less well-off. Those make house moving far more difficult than throwing away everything you no longer need. Yet there is nothing easier than living in accordance with your values.

It’s a book about house moves which light up the inner powerhouse of energy. That don’t tire you. That let you sleep all you want to sleep and keep your holidays for holidays.

It’s a book which will help you, at moving in, open boxes as if you were decades younger, inner child rummaging through his or her treasures. Yeeeeey, I’ve been waiting for you to turn up! I’d forgotten I had you!

It is a book about house moves which you begin to miss.

It will give you a lot. It will ask for a lot.

It will ask you to feel what you feel and think what you think about the objects you own. Ideally, every single one of them. This takes time. Focus. Honesty. Sometimes it hurts.

It will ask you to listen to me and completely ignore me, no matter how mad or persuasive I sound. My possessions, life and inner chaos may be both unrecognisably similar to and very different from yours. It takes mental flexibility, being attuned to yourself and courage to know what’s needed.

It will deprive you of the drama and sympathy around I’m moving house, you know how it is! No, I don’t. I no longer know how stressful, painful, time-devouring, exhausting, every-room-big-bang-exploding it is. I used to. I turned it on its head. I want to show you my ways so that you can invent yours.

If this is a book that sounds right for you, please make yourself at home. I would love you to read it. If not, thank you for stopping over. Wind in your sails too for your next journey home.

TWENTY-ONE (OR THIRTY-THREE) TIMES, NINETEEN YEARS AND COUNTING

I’ve moved between twenty-one and thirty-three times in the past nineteen years. Twenty-one is for ‘proper’ moves, in which I’ve packed my life in one place and took it over to another, not expecting to return and make home again in the former and expecting to stay for the foreseeable future in the latter. Thirty-three includes moves out of places where I intended to stay and did stay only temporarily. I was still looking for my ‘permanent’ home, waiting for it to be vacated, or hanging in space while my future took a clearer shape. On some of those occasions, I was also ‘home home’. ‘Home home’—I use the phrase often—is the flat where I grew up, left at nineteen, where my mum still lives and where I still ‘return’.

I don’t include the times I’ve moved until I came to England, my most radical house move of all. Most of the decisions and tasks in those times weren’t mine. I was either moved by my parents (only twice actually, aged four and five) or had the broader family and family friends holding my hand (such as an uncle ‘appearing’ in his car when I was moving out of the student residences). If I count that, I will have moved somewhere between twenty-eight and forty times. House moving statistics, like all statistics, is fickle. It shifts up and down depending on one’s assumptions and definitions.

I’ve moved in and out of four countries and nineteen towns, cities, villages and middle-of-nowheres. The biggest city I’ve lived in is London. The smallest place is either a tiny village at the foot of Sierra Nevada in Spain or Dawlish Warren on the coast of Devon, England.

The most impressive accommodation I’ve rented was an eighteen-room manor house, first built in the seventeenth century, still having its original front door and Dutch tiles decoration. I was taking wrong turns in it for weeks. As my only housemate was the owner’s daughter, who had the family home to return to, I was often the sole Queen of the Palace. In my maid-like version, I’ve had a room which could hardly fit an ironing board in the space left by the bed, wardrobe, desk, chair and clothes dryer.

I’ve had sea views from my windows in three houses and from the street right up in another one. In one of the former, on a clear day you could see (or imagine seeing) Africa in the distance. I’ve lived in places overlooking a river, a mountain and a pond. But I’ve also had a room facing the neighbourhood rubbish bins. There are times in life when the very best you can afford, in the timeframe you’ve got to search for it, stinks.

I’ve lived by myself in eight of those places and with a boyfriend in one. The rest I’ve shared with thirty-seven housemates, with some significant margin for memory error (this is the count for a shared kitchen, it’s twenty-nine for a shared bathroom). If you shudder at the thought of so many strangers, which all were originally, the norm in the times I’m not writing of was to have roommates. Including the ever-present boyfriends, the standard level of night-time occupancy was five persons in a three-by-three metres room. Living in shared spaces is a topic for another book. It’s not mine to write.

I’ve lost, moved and created many homes. Until move No 16, I found it hard.

I’ve never wanted to move that much. My studies or work needed it. I’ve been quick to respond to a fluctuating budget, both in its ups and downs. I’ve moved for love. I’ve moved because of love lost. On several occasions, I sought more mental space somewhere far away and secluded. Occasionally, owners needed their properties earlier than I wished to leave. One way or another, I didn’t start my house moving ‘career’ enthusiastically. I connect to things, places and people deeply, often slowly. It took me time to learn to leave with light suitcases. It took fifteen years longer to learn to leave with a light heart.

Most of my house moves are from the times when I was a student or a young academic recovering from a PhD. This meant on a minimal budget.

I’ve never had a car, so they had to be light (though I’ve rented vans too). They grew to be aware. When you carry all your possessions on your back, you are CERTAIN something is worth keeping.

Crucially, they were masterpieces in how not to need, not to ask for, and not to accept any help. My greatest fear in life used to be being a burden.

I hope that none of the above constraints defines your move without an alternative. They no longer define mine, but this book will be extra useful if you are counting every penny, your legs and public services are your only means of transport, and you are a hardy mule who ‘does it’ herself or himself (hello, sister/ brother!).

Apart from having a career in moving, I have a career in analysing. I’m an academic researcher in the health sciences. I have studied psychology, philosophy and literature. I demand rigorous evidence, water-tight argumentation and psychological plausibility. I also talk about death and dying more—and more bluntly—than most people, as much of my recent research has been in palliative and end of life care.

This is not an academic book though. There is no explicit theory in it. There is hardly any research evidence other than that of my own life. When I create an argument, it first needs to persuade the most ignorant, stupid, sceptical and disinterested fragments of me. As I have many ignorant, stupid, sceptical and disinterested fragments, my arguments are as simple as possible, but not simpler. I will still ask you to think hard. I will ask you to admit what you don’t want to admit. It may be more of a hard nut than popcorn of a book.

My experience doesn’t make me a house moving expert. It makes me a house moving expert, an absolute ninja in fact, in my own life. But since our lives, houses, possessions and attachments can be incredibly, even incomprehensibly, different, the direct advice I am willing to offer is minimal. You’ll have to derive most of it yourself. Only then you’ll know it will withstand the storms of your life and inner chaos like nothing I’ll be able to teach you.

WHAT THIS BOOK IS NOT ABOUT

This book is not about rules. I won’t be telling you that if you have not worn something for the last year, or if it belonged to your ex-boyfriend/ ex-girlfriend, or if it has a hole between the legs, you should throw it out (or donate, sell, etc.). I will not prescribe an order in which to pack your possessions. I will not tell you the rough or precise number of things to keep.

I do not ridicule such rules. They simplify decision making. There is clarity and sureness about them. But they don’t work for me. I have to feel that something is good and right to do. This requires adding too much nuance, individual idiosyncrasy and complexity to any rule I could have come up with.

Instead, I tell you about the chaos of my possessions and soul and what I do about them. I share reference points, principles, arguments and examples of making decisions. These can be emotional, pragmatic, ethical, green, psychological, philosophical.... Sometimes they will match your needs, sometimes not. But even if they don’t, they can serve as food for thought. I would be just as happy if your decisions are the exact opposite to mine as long as something I wrote helped you make them.

This is not a book about the sweetness of home either. That sweetness is, of course, the goal and the background. It trickles through. It doesn’t flow.

There is pain, struggle, fear, tears, loneliness, sadness, loss, blood in this book apart from the safety, order, clarity, laugher, certainty, adventure, freedom, lightness....I believe the former are unavoidable in finding our true home. By now, I’ve found mine and am there often (though being home is an ever in-and-out and evolving experience). But it is still a book that is more about the rocky road than the blissful destination.

This is also not a book about every sort of possession I could think of. For instance, I don’t have chapters about kids’ ‘things’, gardening or music, while these may be defining of your life. In some cases, this is because they’ve not been part of my life yet, like kids or gardening. In other cases, it is because I’ve never moved the bulk of my collection, for instance of music—my violins, LPs, cassettes, CDs and the rest have remained home home.

Yet many of the ideas I share transcend possessions. You may find the solutions for your music in the books chapter, for instance. To help you with this, the table of contents points, for each chapter after the introductory ones, to its core physical chaos topic (the material possessions a chapter is about) and its core psychological chaos topic (the psychological mess it addresses and which, for you, may be associated with the same or other types of possessions).

This is also not a book which develops an argument or a story in a way that expects you to read ‘everything’ or in order. If a section begins to feel as having too much unnecessary detail and/or ‘overthinking it’, you might be better off moving to a different chapter. The experience most likely means that a particular type of possession doesn't matter to you; that it is something you have a healthy relationship with and you know why you have what you have; or if it is in the context of a type of psychological mess, that you’ve long outgrown or never been troubled by it. More rarely, resistance to detail may mean avoiding to face something painful or unpleasant, whether about the house moving work awaiting you or about yourself.

WHAT THIS BOOK IS ABOUT WITHOUT BEING ABOUT IT

I sincerely hope to be able to help you with the practicalities of your move, but I don’t care much if I do.

There are at least five other things I want to talk with you about while we ponder over moving houses.

The first is adventure in the everyday. It’s so typical for a house move to become about stress, dust, chaos, clutter, boxes, dry hands, exhaustion....It is also so typical to seek adventure in extreme or daring ways—going on a safari, skydiving, volunteering in an orphanage in Nepal....Yet if you put your mind to it, you will find extraordinary amounts of exploration, creativity, ridiculousness, chance encounters, insight, awe, magic and so much more while moving house. Conjuring adventure in ordinary or frustrating days is pure alchemy. A house move can be your cauldron.

The second thing this book is about without being about it is the courage to show yourself. So many of our possessions, including the homes we choose to live in, hide us. They are faceless. They make us invisible. Or they are right in everybody’s face while showing none of our truth. It takes courage to show that truth, both in its shadows and its light, including through what we own.

The third thing I often write about in the background is care with integrity. So many of us care deeply for the environment and the less fortunate and act on that care. We do it sincerely. We do it systematically. But we do it sincerely and systematically until it becomes inconvenient; until it crosses a certain threshold of ‘our part’ or ‘reasonable’; until we must refuse to eat at the place where food is served in plastic containers; until we have to cycle uphill with glass bottles and empty tins clinking in our backpack; until we have to talk to the homeless with the dead left eye. House moves are extreme tests for how far we are walking the talk we are talking.

In the same stroke, they stretch our capacity for self-care. They show us if we care as wise light souls or self-torturing self-righteous martyrs. They distil our ability to balance care and self-care.

The fourth thing this book is about without being about it is freedom. It is not about the freedom of moving from one place to another, although this can be a grand way to feel free. It is about the freedom of thousands of social pressures, myths, clichés and straightforward lies around ‘home’. When you’ve fought for your way of thinking about something as fundamental as ‘home’, it will be easier to do it about other big things where we are ruled, against our best interests and the longings of our soul, by social convention and ‘normal life’.

But what I write the most about without writing directly about it is that which may help you feel less lonely, less anxious and less homeless in the gaping hole that sometimes opens when moving houses. I want you to feel less scared and inadequate because of the shit inside of you (and that’s irrespective of whether you are moving it from house to house or sitting on it in the same house for years). I want you to know that no matter how extreme, stinking and deep running that shit is, it is never greater than the opportunities to contain it. It’s the same as the mess in a house you are moving from—it may feel overwhelming and infinite, but there are always ways to sort and contain it.

There is always a house you can move into—a physical house of enough space or an emotional house of safety, love and wisdom—that can embrace, contain and transform all the mess you bring in.

If you haven’t yet found it,

let’s build it.

Chapters 1 to 4 discuss the reasons why house moving is the time-consuming, exhausting and soul-destroying experience it typically is. These include:

• The sheer number of decisions involved and their cognitive load. We are almost doomed to underestimate how much we own ( Chapter 1 ).

• Four types of ‘microprojects’ that a house move presents us with ( Chapter 2 ).

• The subversive and energy-draining emotions that get triggered while we are sorting through our possessions. Unexpectedly, these are rarely the deep, dramatic sentiments most of us fear ( Chapter 3 ).

• The defaults of principles and values we approach house moving with, while we can tame the beast only if we switch on both our defaults and their opposites ( Chapter 4 ).

Chapter 5 discusses two things you can do early on, without lifting a finger, to make your move radically easier.

Chapters 6 and 7 are about two experiences you can hardly avoid. You can, however, prepare for:

• The pain of disconnecting from yet another place, which wouldn’t be that important or interesting if it weren’t standing for numerous other forms of unprocessed pain ( Chapter 6 ).

• Proper cleaning , which is a perfect example of how the likes of ‘I’m used to’, ‘I always do’ (cleaning, avoiding cleaning, paying somebody to clean for me) stop us from making a genuine choice ( Chapter 7 ).

WHAT MAKES HOUSE MOVING DIFFICULT (1): AN EXPLOSION OF DECISIONS, OR HOW THE POSSESSIONS OF A TWO-BEDROOM FLAT CAN TAKE UP THE SEATS OF FORTY-SIX BOEINGS

There are between 7,198 and 16,698 items in my mum’s two-bedroom, eighty-square-metre flat. (I counted her possessions rather than mine, as her household will give you a far more accurate idea of the battle awaiting you. I’ve fought mine twenty-one times.)

The lower limit of 7,000+ treats all objects in a set or all elements within a container as one thing. A set of six forks is one thing. A folder with seventy-six documents is another. The upper limit, verging on 17,000, assumes that most of my mum’s possessions will need an individual decision. For instance, while the twelve plates of her purple earthenware set are identical, some are cracked and chipped. She may want to inspect each plate before taking it to her new house. The upper limit is still within sensible boundaries. I counted, for instance, packs of napkins and ‘handfuls’ of paperwork, not all napkins in a pack or individual documents.

CALL IN THE AIRLINE FLEET!

If my mum decides to move, her task will be somewhere in between. The more considerate she decides to be—of the environment, objects and the makers of objects; those less fortunate than her; her own past, etc.—the closer she will be to handling around 17,000 objects. If each of these takes a passenger’s seat, you will need a fleet of forty-six Boeing 747 planes. A responsible house mover will check in all the passengers with the right credentials and make arrangements for the onwards journey of all others.

If you think this doesn’t apply to you because you are not a hoarder, my mum is not one either. Or, rather, she is a hoarder in the selective way most of us are—there are only some types of things we cannot let go of. On a continuum of ‘bare’ to ‘cluttered’, her flat leans strongly towards ‘bare’. The three exceptions are the laundry room, which is also my brother’s tool shed (still small, he has several); the clothes room; and, temporarily, the living room floor, where thirty-nine boxes of books await the next stage of a library clear-out. Most cupboards and drawers in the flat have empty spaces. I would say that no more than 10% are stuffed (no official data collected though).

Whether we know we have ‘a lot’ or believe ‘it’s not that much’ (since ‘it’s been just six months’, ‘it’s only a room’, ‘I decluttered in spring’), we are almost doomed to underestimation. Too many objects of daily life disappear from acute awareness. They become part of the flow of numerous (semi-)automatic activities. The elements of these fuse into chunky wholes in our thoughts and perceptions. Then, on the day before we leave, we finally SEE the pillows under the duvet cover and ‘oh, no, please, no!’ they TOO are too big to carry, too mundane to sell, generally not accepted in charity containers, and don’t fit in any of the clean bags we’ve got left. We remember it’s not only the damp clothes we need to find space for in our luggage, but the drying rack that holds them too.

We also tend to focus on items which pose logistical challenges. We are aware of the task presented by the heavy oak table. The sofa that’s too big for the door. The forty-two pairs of shoes. Yet anything which was not in when we first came, even if as immaterial as four unused stamps from our trip to the U.S., a lonely sock or our faithful but unremarkable purple lunch box, calls for a decision or a set of decisions.

FOUR CORNERSTONE DECISIONS

7,198 to 16,698 possessions mean A LOT of DECISIONS. Moreover, most of those decisions will have layers.

The primary decision in a house move is I want to keep or I don’t want to keep (Decision A).

This may be a split-second decision whereby the inner calculator spits out the result of:

and any other criteria we’ve used, unconsciously or half-consciously, in our judgement around ‘worth keeping’.

Often enough, however, our decisions are not automatic, quick and simple. Our brain chokes.

It chokes on boundary cases. We often hit them when our (semi-)conscious criteria and values come up with conflicting answers.

For instance, I am attached to our thirty-five-year-old aluminium bread plate and use it daily when I am home home. But it looks like a concentration camp exhibit—grey, bent, scratched; joyless, yet comfortingly inert and reliable. Importantly, I am ‘attached’ to it is not the same as I ‘love’ it. I can’t decide if I love it but I’ll find it hard to separate from it. Moreover, if I decide to throw it away, it’s possible that my mum or brother will ‘save’ it from the recycling bag and raise hell that I’m throwing out perfectly usable things again. I don’t want to bypass domestic democracy. I don’t want to argue. Yet I may not need to. It’s just as likely that they are grateful I’ve made a decision they didn’t want to make.

Apart from thinking about boundary cases, we may need to do things to inform our thinking. We try on a pair of trousers. We leaf through a book we can’t remember reading. We treat, once again, the stubborn muddy raindrops on the pale pink rucksack.

Other people may need to be involved too. You