About One Year.

It's that time of year.

At this same time every year, I ponder my life. As I pack all my belongings in boxes and move them from one place to the next, I question if life is more than a series of boxes moved from place to place. Things get packed away like jigsaw puzzles, unpacked and temporarily put on display, repacked, and moved again, all in a yearly pattern. Yet the boxes symbolize the ability to compartmentalize and rearrange for whatever reason it may be.

This year, I find the packing different.

On one hand, it's because I have to pack everything I own, move it to my boyfriend's basement, crash on my best friend's air mattress for a week, and then move everything I own into my new studio.

But I'll leave that for another day, cause homelessness and the stupidity of Iowa City apartment companies deserves its own blog post.

Anyways.

For the past two years, I've made this same move at this same time. First, into my dorm for my first year of college. Then home. Then to my second dorm. Then to an apartment three months later. Then to a new apartment for the summer. Next is bumming for a week, and then my studio for my last year at the University of Iowa (In case you're counting, when you add my move in two weeks, it's 7 times in three years).

This is my last move. I am, in fact, graduating college in one year.

At this time next year when I pack away all the boxes, it won't be for a move down the street. It won't be for a move in the same city. It won't involve boxes being moved close by and being homeless for a week in between summer and school year apartments.

It will be a long journey. Everything I own will leave Iowa City once and for all. I won't come back for the following year. I'll be on to a new journey (that has yet to be decided). Next year, I won't be three hours away from mom and dad. I won't be in college where I'm babysat by deans and cops in bars.

And I can't really say where I'll be, because as much as I want to, I don't know.

But I know one thing for sure.

All the boxes can't go. All the things I hold so dear to me as objects of comfort will become nothing but frills and excess. Instead of three boxes of books, it's five or six.

I can't even take all the bags and all the things I want to fit in them. Not everything can be folded like a jigsaw puzzle and dragged from place to place. There are limits.

In a year, I start all over. I start a new life in a new place.

And in a year, when I pack everything I own, I wonder where it will land. I wonder what I will leave behind. I wonder what I will find immaterial and inessential. I wonder how I'll feel when I wander back to my things before yet another journey.

More importantly, I wonder where I'll land and what I'll take with me.

But I'm ready to let go of the bags and the boxes and wander aimlessly and happily onto my next adventure.

Excuse me, I have a case of wanderlust.