Changing Colour

This morning I woke around 7:00, less than six hours after packing my suitcases for about the third time. I will go through this ritual of emptying my bags, eliminating one sweater and packing them again at least two more times before heading to the airport. I have spent the past three days shopping for things I need (rather that I don't want to buy in England) and painstakingly deciding what to leave behind (the "Where's Waldo?" sweater did not make the cut). I reason with myself that by brining cereal and granola bars and caramels and oatmeal I will be sure to have space for all I assimilate in the next four months. I am not convinced.

Somewhere between all the packing and unpacking and repacking I am aware of a familiar restlessness that sets in when I am about to move yet again. I feel out of sorts and displaced, even in my own room where I am surrounded by all of my "stuff." I rely too much on that "stuff," identifying myself with it, hiding behind it, forming attachments with the temporal. This semester will be different. There is no car, no van, no U-haul to cart my small world around in. There is only me and my pen. I consider this a rare privilege, and I hope I will take advantage of it.

I admit to apprehension. In addition to the token fear of the unknown and the academic rigor of Oxford University what I wonder about currently is who I will be when I am alone, without relationship, occupation or possession to define me. What colours will I show? I know not, but I am preparing to learn, to "gen up" if you will, and take some ownership of that which has been defined by things for so long.