A week

Scorched Ponderosa, along the Barnhardt Trail in the Mazatzal Mountains, AZ

Last Wednesday, March 1, I woke up at the Red Roof Inn near the airport in Tempe, drove to Chandler, picked up a U Haul truck, went to what was in a matter of hours going to be my former house, and, first, loaded all of my cacti into the U Haul. It also took a while to dismantle the ridiculously flimsy and depressing metal tube structure I had bought on sale from Big Lots! (you need to include the exclamation mark) that I tried to use as a shade structure and otherwise clean up the detritus that accumulates when you are a grower of plants. A friend of mine had generously offered to take them all under his wing and he also lives in Chandler. He's an expert grower and the plants couldn't be in better hands.

 It took about an hour and a half to load all the cacti into the truck, drive about 4 miles and then unload them all into my friend's front yard. One of the neighbors came out at one point and gave me some side eye, but also looked as if maybe he was used to seeing cacti being moved there.

Then I drove back to my soon to be former house and loaded all of my possessions into the U Haul. There was something definitely pathetic about the experience-- demoralizing and exposed, destitute-feeling and overfilled with grief. The little cat, Anya, was all over me the whole time. It felt as if I was being drowned by some malevolent disposer of unwanted humans. It felt like a death-- like a Bardo. A so severely unwanted passage. The only slight spark of light was the knowledge that I would no longer be sleeping on the sofa in my own home, encountering periodically the woman who just a month earlier had been warm, affectionate and kind toward me, but who now had become nearly 100% made of solid ice.

I then drove all of my possessions to a storage unit-- number 1133, which seems like an auspicious number somehow. It hardly took any time at all to unload everything and all of my stuff only takes up about 40% of the space. I locked it up, turned in the truck and drove my car back to my soon to be former house.

When we first moved in, I had carefully placed large rocks on top of 24 border bricks that formed a circle around the defunct hot tub in the back yard. So I ritually removed each of those large stones, held it close to my heart, breathed on it, said a prayer, and then tossed it back into the flat of rocks and gravel where it had come from. One by one, around the circle, undoing the intentions and the protection spells. Thanking the universe for the opportunity, grieving, casting. Each rock traveled its own unique arc back to earth after being thrown and each one made a very satisfying clatter as it returned among the other rocks.

Then I said a tearful goodbye to Anya, got in my car and headed out into Chandler. I had no reservations for a place to stay. I had no plan. I had nothing whatsoever. I stopped in the 7-11 parking lot and wept.

That was a week ago,