When you move to an island, its simpler and more complicated than a landlocked move. Simpler because there are oh so many, many things you won’t be taking with you! Like furniture. Or your bed--which is a whole chakra below furniture. You can’t even take all your "pictures-you’re-going-to-put-in-albums-someday." Or your now-antique wedding dress made by your now-antique, but timelessly classy, mother. (Whoops, guess that’s just me.) With so much eliminated, the complication arises: you’re left with most of what you own—plus the winter half of your wardrobe.

Storage is the obvious answer of course, but there a tale looms. My friend, Jackie, moved to The Big Island with a spousal agreement many years ago. She would give it a year and if she didn’t like it, reserved the right to move back. Storage, of course! Three or four years later, when it was apparent, that she, like Jimmy Buffett, had succumbed to “island fever,” she and her husband visited their stateside storage shed for a look. “This is what we’ve been paying money to keep?” they cried. Half of it they’d forgotten they owned. Most of it they tossed.

I’m ensconced in a similar dilemma. Even en route to Maui, I’m nurturing a dream of having a little place back here in Sac where my roots grow deep…a place I can land a few months at a time to reconnect with long-time friends and with Sacramento itself—the place that for most of my adult life has provided me with “SacredMomentum.”  And for that, I would need to … store more not less.

Still, I can’t find it in my heart or my budget to pay for a storage stall with 24 hour surveillance and industrial-strength padlocks. Feels like leaving my babies in jail. Thus the procedure in place is to a) dispose of most of my furniture and disperse the rest to friends b) give away the bed and at least as much stuff as a bed, stacked high, could hold, and c) ask the Universe and my friend, Sandi, what to do with the rest.
 
Sandi’s suggestion: a storage shed on her property—which I’ll need anyway if we someday build a yurt back there as my Sweet Sac Spot. Now I’m waiting for the Universe to nudge me toward the affordable shed of my dreams or reveal another solution. The storage thermometer is rising from orange to red. I need to be “stored” by the end of March when I leave for a two-city, four-house tour of pre-Maui family visits.

By the way, my storage needs also require space for a hefty supply of my book, “Who Are You Calling Grandma? True Confessions of a Baby Boomer’s Passage.”  Want to buy a copy? Think of it as a charitable donation that makes you laugh!

Together on the Evolving Journey,

Maridel