I feel the urge to move my bed today. In the nearly 5 years we have lived here, the bed has been moved twice. Once to a perpendicular wall, and once back to its original position.
The bed was in this position for three years. It felt right when we moved in, and we had the delivery people set it up right where it is now. In this bed, I felt the joy of home ownership and nursing sweet baby Alec. I cried anguished tears when Karl was unwell, driving around Missouri in 0 degree temperatures all night. I snuggled deep into blankets on cold March nights, when Karl had to be on his own for a few months to get better and the boys were at his house for the night, and I was trying to adjust to this new normal, which wasn't part of any plan I had had.
One day I moved the bed. Karl was healthy and back home, and had taken the boys to his parents for the day. I cleaned and painted the counters-part way- and moved the bed in my room for a change. Caleb stopped by that day. He wandered around, greeting the cats in his quiet way, and stopped on his way out to tell me the house looked nice. I asked if he wanted to stay, but he had to get to his night job he said.
The bed was already moved. Over the following weeks, I wondered, superstitiously if moving the bed had been my mistake. Feng Shui calls it "coffin position" when the foot of the bed faces the door. Did I bring death into our lives?
My head, of course, knows otherwise. But superstition works a little differently. It seeps out slowly from under the skin, churning the midsection with a hint of anxiety. Supersition can be reasoned away for awhile, but its hazy face is always peeking around the corner looking for a way back in.
And now I want to move my bed again. It just feels like it is in the wrong place. But then I think what is this all about? Am I trying to recapture the innocence of that day, when I first moved the bed and got my house in order. Or, even more insidiously, perhaps I am being moved to change my bed because death is lurking around a corner looking for a way in.
You can't go home again, and I can't bring back that morning when Caleb inhabited an earthly body, anymore than I could pray or wish his pain away. It's weird to think how scary it can be to do something as basic as moving the bed.
So, I am going to do it soon.
If you die, my apologies.
Danged Feng Shui.
The bed was in this position for three years. It felt right when we moved in, and we had the delivery people set it up right where it is now. In this bed, I felt the joy of home ownership and nursing sweet baby Alec. I cried anguished tears when Karl was unwell, driving around Missouri in 0 degree temperatures all night. I snuggled deep into blankets on cold March nights, when Karl had to be on his own for a few months to get better and the boys were at his house for the night, and I was trying to adjust to this new normal, which wasn't part of any plan I had had.
One day I moved the bed. Karl was healthy and back home, and had taken the boys to his parents for the day. I cleaned and painted the counters-part way- and moved the bed in my room for a change. Caleb stopped by that day. He wandered around, greeting the cats in his quiet way, and stopped on his way out to tell me the house looked nice. I asked if he wanted to stay, but he had to get to his night job he said.
The bed was already moved. Over the following weeks, I wondered, superstitiously if moving the bed had been my mistake. Feng Shui calls it "coffin position" when the foot of the bed faces the door. Did I bring death into our lives?
My head, of course, knows otherwise. But superstition works a little differently. It seeps out slowly from under the skin, churning the midsection with a hint of anxiety. Supersition can be reasoned away for awhile, but its hazy face is always peeking around the corner looking for a way back in.
And now I want to move my bed again. It just feels like it is in the wrong place. But then I think what is this all about? Am I trying to recapture the innocence of that day, when I first moved the bed and got my house in order. Or, even more insidiously, perhaps I am being moved to change my bed because death is lurking around a corner looking for a way in.
You can't go home again, and I can't bring back that morning when Caleb inhabited an earthly body, anymore than I could pray or wish his pain away. It's weird to think how scary it can be to do something as basic as moving the bed.
So, I am going to do it soon.
If you die, my apologies.
Danged Feng Shui.
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