Time drags, but there are so many little tasks it also crystalizes and fragments and may even shatter. We’re moving to Boulder in a couple months. A shitload of stuff is happening very quickly and also not quickly enough. I want badly to already be sitting in a serene moment, having “settled in” in our new home, but that scene is a dreamy, soft-focus pink far away over the horizon in Futureland.

I want to feel like I’m getting some work done, so I’ve generally been focusing on discrete tasks, like decluttering for the realtor and some preliminary packing. Getting quotes from moving companies. Estimating box requirements. We have two months before we will really be moving so now there’s a lot of anxious winnowing. Then, I also try to do my other work, like reading and revising my novel, doing my other self-assigned reading, other creative pursuits. I have a small editing project on the side, purely for fun, that I’m keeping cued up.

Then a lot of the rest of the time is driving around, doing dishes and other chores, playing with the kids and schlepping the kids. I can’t seriously pack quite yet because that would fill the house up with boxes right when the realtor is trying to show the house for a “coming soon” period. Sort of like a soft opening. We’re going to Boulder for the next week; we could even have an offer by the time we get back. These all feel like momentous things happening in slow motion, and I’m in shock, just watching as a big red fireball rolls up the street, like it’s a nineties disaster movie.

But it’s no disaster, it’s just a simple twist of fate. A lifestyle change, a scene change. When I finally do sit in that serene moment, there will be mountains out the window.