It sort of took me by surprise the way the somatic experience of moving is like being hit by a cartoon anvil falling off a cliff. It completely flattened me and, quite literally, took my breath away. Every molecule in my body feel like it had been misplaced somewhere in the transfer along with the can opener and all of my favorite pens. That first night I had to keep reminding myself to breathe.
Inhale... exhale... repeat.
The grief was visceral and overwhelming. I had to tell myself...this is normal, this is okay, this is how it's going to go for a while, you will be okay.
My friend Jen gratefully reminds me that if you take care of the body it will take care of the rest of you. This was the necessity of week one and landing in the new house; keep the body and senses in good working order. The prescription was extraordinary amounts of sleep, remember to eat, quiet but not too much quiet, breathe fresh air, and comfort of the highest order in every shape and form (lavender in the diffuser, baths daily, candle and twinkle light, familiar foods, friendly sounds in my ear to keep me company). Only then was I able to begin to integrate the make-shift bed and new corners, sounds and smells without it all feeling like a complete assault. The abruptness of a move is absolutely akin to trauma in many ways, even without the added layer of divorce. All of this lead time also gave me such good insight and wisdom to support my kids through this embodied adjustment as well.
It's not just the stuff that needs to land.
Now that we're getting to know each other, this house has a very calm, sweet energy. It's fairly content as far as audible moans and groans. The darkness is easy and gentle and not at all creepy. It comes comes alive in morning sunlight. The rooms have so much possibility. So far, these walls seem to be catching us in every way.