We're moving again. I found black mold in the basement and I suspect it's on the outside of the wall, the side the painters can't paint over, the side that is in next room over from the furnace, the side that makes us sneeze and cough as it's particles filter up through the whole house pushed up through the heat ducts, the side that reminded the landlord he can't just buy $30,000 homes that are falling apart and rent them out to people for insane amounts of money because he thinks they don't know any better, the side that got me out of my lease much earlier than expected, the side that allowed me to rent a three bedroom, hundred year old foursquare-crasftman house in a historic district, the side that has me cleaning house and packing again.
This moldy side of drywall is something I think about late at night lying in bed, it something I stress about, it's something I blame. I'm actually a little obsessive about cleanliness though still a bustly and cluttery person. I like to save things with ideas for art projects, I like to look back on a bobble and remember that time. But I can't stand filth. If something is sticky, dirty, stinky or moldy I get the heebie-jeebies. I can't actually rest my mind until I have cleaned it. Having a two year old in the house, you can imagine, sometimes I step in something sticky. It short circuts my brain. I can't handle my feet being even too dusty, much less sticky and knowing it could get stuck again because there's juice on the tile makes me literally loose it. I can't even function until the sticky is washed, dried and order is restored. I know this is irrational but really to properly heed the five second rule, keeping a clean floor is imperative.
I watch the show "Hoarders," it's one of my favorites. If I were ever on that show, I'd be the lady with a million scraps of memories in containers stacked to the ceiling. Though what actually happens is every few months I get fed up and need to rearrange the house. A great sorting always comes with it and after the many moves I've done over the last three years (six in total) I have learned to let go of things. I actually hear the doctors' voices from the show "You will always have the memory, the item isn't the person." I also ask myself "Can I replace it for less than a dollar?" This keep me from filling my desk with old menus, bits of ribbon, greeting cards and every scribble my baby ever splotted on the back of an envelope.
This weekend, as I sort through clutter I could love, the mold in the basement whispers "Get out." I intend to listen. I'm packing boxes, tossing broken toys, sorting clothes that don't fit, and re-reading greeting cards before they go in the trash. I plan to move the small stuff during this week and big things on Saturday with a moving truck. It's supposed to snow that day, but the mold doesn't care. It creeps and whispers, blackening any sense of comfort I have with spores set forth on the wind currents of this old house. It haunts the place and soon it will own it because I'm moving on, cleansed of all the broken, useless and hurtfull things. I am moving in to a sturdy old healthy house with enough room to think.