The pain comes from the preparation. The gathering, sorting and packing, an unceremonious ritual that lets my body know that soon, very soon, I will be going out the door. And unless someone comes through the door, breaking the threshold, to hold my hand – I wouldn’t be going anywhere at all. I don’t break a threshold, knowing many more are coming. I stay in the house.
I can’t pinpoint when the distance first seeded. Expanding and accumulating thresholds from the door to the car. The 15 foot distance between the front door of the house and the car door may as well be 2000 miles. When there is a build up of energy, a process seeped in the very thought of leaving, my thoughts and feelings split. “Woman, lets go, what’s the problem?” Self doubt manifesting as cramping in my solar plexus. A feeling of doom masquerading as intuition says, “don’t go, you are going to die”. Rather than prolonging this anxiety, I always wait until the last minute to pack. And I don’t make trips unless someone comes to get me out the house. Sometimes, something as simple as help carrying my bags to the car breaks the spell, making the unbearable bearable.
Once I am free of distance and the thresholds, I return to the free spirit state I was so long ago. I run! I be out the house and I’m not going home! I explore, get lost seeking experience. I always dread going home. When I am in the house I don’t want to leave. Once I am out, I don’t want to return, because the threshold is resealed.