Facing the Boxes: there are just so many.

I don’t know where the expression “facing the music” originated, but for me, “facing the boxes” has a more ominous, repugnant and revolting ring to it.

Facing cardboard boxes scavenged from area grocery stores, knowing all the while that I must pack my personal items inside of them, securing the flaps with tape and yesterday’s news is a will-power sapping eyeful of sadness.

I realize what I am leaving behind.

Talking with Al today, I said, “We should go to the Tea Room for lunch some time,” realizing only after it was floating in the air around us that we can’t make that date. I have an appointment with my cardboard boxes, but more importantly, I have an airline ticket.

What comes after the boxes are stored in my mom’s basement? [which, as a side note, she can’t stand.] I know she closes her eyes at night and invokes the image of my gypsy possessions gathering dust in her otherwise uncluttered and ultra-organized basement. She hates my unruly clothes, futon and lava lamp as much as I hate the boxes that attempt to contain them. We have a mutual hate fest, each for different reasons. I know hating is very un-Buddhist, but those who honestly hate for a certain period of time until they let go should be rewarded for admitting it.

I hear the song “If life is a highway, I want to ride it all night long,” playing in my head. I think I am ready to jump on the highway of transience, but I am not quite sure what map I should follow. Perhaps that means I am not a responsible driver, but I will use avoidance to dodge that quotidian concern.

Let’s return to the boxes. No, let’s not.