Immeasurably More

In the 18 hours since I have officially moved into my grandmother's home, I have investigated the contents of the fridge, the freezer, and all the kitchen cupboards. I've been advised to look for a Dymo labelwriter among her appliances so that I can label canisters, but Grandma is actually pretty careful about labeling things. Grandma seems to keep her food in pairs; either there's a little bag which has been portioned out of the Family Value size bag, or there's one jar open and one jar for backup.  The two containers are rarely stored together. One of my mom's friends is a professional organizer.  She says that being organized just means being able to find what you want when you want it; you can organize your life in cardboard shoe boxes if that's what works for you. My corollary to her axiom is: no one can tell you where to store your pasta sauce.  (My grandmother's unopened jar was in the laundry room, rather than in the cupboard with the canned

My touch down to American soil comes in Chicago, but there is no one there to welcome me.  Not even an immigration officer.  Flights leaving from Dublin Terminal 2 to the US require passengers to pass through customs and immigration in Dublin, and I suppose it would be untrue for the immigration officer there to say "Welcome Home" when I'm still on Irish soil, so he doesn't. My brother, sister-in-law and neice are waiting to meet me when I arrive in Tulsa and they say "Welcome to Tulsa" (which is truer, anyway, since Tulsa isn't really home).  In the spirit of Truth, what my neice actually says is something like "yah ahh gah yah", but it comes with a hug, so we can assume that means "welcome," too. I manage to sleep from 10pm until about 5:30am.  16 hours of travelling will do that to you.  Fortunately, my aunt is up before me; they have a new coffee maker with more buttons than the last one and I am not sure how to run it.  O

From The Giant's Causeway, Northern Ireland "The police will notice and take you away," said one of my supportive friends. "They won't burn," said another. "There won't be enough air circulation." "The box will sink and the business cards will float and everyone will know it was you." "You'll set a swan on fire." What marks the finish, the completion of something? 8 weeks ago, I thought 8 weeks would be the perfect duration - a gentle winding down of my life in England.  Time to do everything it was important to me to do.  I didn't want my time in England to just be over; I wanted it to be complete. So I had 8 weeks of last time dinners.  A farewell tour of Scotland.  The church called a new minister (finally!). I delivered a long promised loaf of Challah to friends.  I bought tickets to the Cabinet War Rooms and a play at Theatre Royal Windsor.  And by the time on Monday that two nice men took away a

Me and All these women I know - are we good Girl Scouts?  Be Prepared.  Waste not, Want not.  Reduce, Reuse, Recycle.  A Penny Saved is a Penny Earned.  And All That Jazz.   Or are we just hoarders? The things I own that have any monetary value would fit into the eggplant JanSport backpack mom bought me when I was in Jr. High.  The sentimental stuff (like the JanSport backpack) would fill several boxes.  And then there's everything else. Anyone who's ever packed up a house understands the burden of ownership.  All these things from which we used to derive some benefit or comfort become dead weight in boxes which strain our lower backs.  Why do we do it?  What keeps us from abandoning it all and walking out into the world with only a JanSport? Well Me, for starters I have this preference for wearing clean clothes instead of dirty ones.  That are pretty.  And in good repair.  And useful (as in appropriate for some social situation or other).  Also, clothes that fit me.  So ho

After starting a load of laundry, I forced myself to sit still with my journal for 30 minutes, because all I really want to do is carry on packing. Nikki spent all day here yesterday helping me sort and organize.  We were exhausted by 8 o 'clock.  And there is still so much more to do. Yet inexplicably, today feels like a Sunday.

I resigned 6 weeks ago, and those 6 weeks have passed so quickly. Is it possible to slow down the next 19 before I get to Tulsa?  I doubt it.  Yesterday, I went straight from the office to the salon, to my favorite Thai restaurant to my last show at Windsor Theatre.  This morning, I made brownies with the last of my Nutella, will go to London to meet friends, then straight to dinner with my church's latest Minister candidate.  Tomorrow,  I will make a cake for the church lunch, be at church all day, and then go to dinner with former (!) colleagues. Monday,  the landlord comes to inspect the flat and I am going to pack like a crazy woman. Tuesday, Nikki and I are driving to Oxford to see a friend in the hospital. Yesterday, my coworkers were giving me 6 months before I start screaming with boredom. Bring it. I could use some!