Period
After about seven weeks of staying in temporary lodgings here in Corrane, construction on my permanent living space progressed to the point of liveability. Late one Friday afternoon, I loaded my two duffel bags onto a motorcycle and accomplished the short move across the village to the convent in the quickly setting sun. I rode my bicycle while the moto driver transported my belongings, kindly following slowly behind me so he could illuminate my way with his headlight. Despite briefly getting stuck in a muddy section of the road and taking an embarrassing wrong turn, It was by far the quickest and simplest of all my moves of 2025, which totaled four. All four of these transitions have been crucial learning moments along my journey to my new home. Each one helping me consolidate my belongings and my mindset into this new lifestyle I have chosen. The first was by U-Haul, the second was two trips in a Prius, the third was six flights across three continents, and the fourth was a 20 minute bicycle ride down a dirt road at dusk.
Packing up the three bedroom house my sister and I had made our home was heartbreaking. I remember placing items into boxes and physically struggling to let them go. I would hold something as simple as a spatula in my hand and memories would flash of delicious meals, lively parties, quiet breakfasts, all in that house. I said goodbye to my life piece by piece as I laid each belonging into storage. I store up clothes, art, keepsakes. My packing list specifically instructs, "leave all valuables in your home country". I take that very seriously. Anything that is irreplaceable is left behind. Family heirlooms, precious gifts, favorite mementos, all are packed carefully and neatly away. I try to imagine the version of myself that will be opening these boxes when I return from service. What will flash through her mind two years from now as she pulls the spatula out of the box? I imagine articles of clothing, triathlon memorabilia, and even toiletries holding different weight and different meaning. I laugh to myself as I imagine future Sarah crying over reuniting with my favorite casserole dishes.
Some of my art and furniture is taken to friends' homes "on loan" so that they can be of use in my absence. A few prints for a someone's nursery, barstools to another friend's apartment, art for a colleague who recently bought her house. The rest of my belongings are taken to my parents' attic and basement by U-Haul. Its a luxury to have access to free storage during travel, and I don't take that for granted. Truly, I would not have taken this leap without my parents' presence as a stateside base camp. They have provided stability for the rest of our family which has given me the freedom to remove myself as a pillar of the support system. I reflect on who I have been in these clothes, on this furniture, within this life. Packing into long-term storage is much more of a life inventory than a typical move. What one "needs" takes new shape as hard decisions are made for what to keep accessible for the few months until the big move to Africa. I will be nannying and traveling throughout the Oregon summer. Swimsuits, overalls, and crop tops dominate the pile, as well as a generous amount of exercise clothing. Preparation for this move involves becoming as healthy as I have ever been, as well as frontloading two extra summers worth of family memories into this one.
I will be living with a friend in Portland for two months rent free in order to continue working full time and pay off the rest of my debt. My bedroom set is moved to her place, where it will stay for the next two years. She hopes to rent out the room to travelling nurses once I am away. I imagine all the personalities and energies that will pass through the room while I am sleeping on a different continent. I set up the tiny space in a temporary, but affectionate fashion, not unlike the nurses will. I adorn the windowsill with my tiny collection of books and journals and set up the nightstand with my meager assortment of electronics and art. Most of what I have at this point is clothes, which fit neatly into one suitcase.
The two months I lived in her home provided a baby step toward the lifestyle that awaited me as a field worker. I had to consolidate my life into a room. No Halloween costumes or Christmas decorations in the closet. No hutch full of china and family heirlooms. No board games, no cookbooks, no table cloths. I had what was needed for my daily life, and nothing more. This was terrifying and liberating all at once. As life is simplified, time is turned back. The canvas empties. Each item in my possession becomes more precious overnight. I am still grieving my old life, but feel immense peace and gratitude for the openness that comes with the purge. My breaths become deeper, my thoughts less cluttered, and my space takes on a spiritual component. My mindset was begining to shift towards a monastic lifestyle, and I embrace it.
I worked that summer for a family who had just purchased a very large house in a very wealthy new neighborhood. As they began filling their home and laying their roots, I was releasing a whole life of possessions and connections. I remember one day I unpacked all of the family's glassware in the morning and then in the evening packed up all of mine. As I integrated farther into their family, I was living two completely separate lives. One was establishing routine, the other was disrupting it. I was struck by living space reflecting your values as I transitioned to smaller living. No longer was I the hosting house, the social hub of family and friends. No longer did I display all my achievements on the walls, and my travels on my shelves. My space became more intimate and personal. Less for others and now more just for me.
Leaving my summer lodgings was as easy as loading the car one Saturday morning. It felt similar to loading up for a camping trip. This transition not only marked the final move before Africa, but also my departure from the city of Portland. I lived in 2 dorms, 3 apartments, and 1 house in Portland over the course of 15 years. Upon leaving, I realized I have lived there longer than anywhere else in life and was finally comfortable saying that is where I am "from". It is a good feeling to be from somewhere. And, even better to feel one belongs where they are from. That is what I patiently found in Portland, belonging.
I move into the spare room in my parents' basement. This is where I slept and played as a child when we visited my grandparents. And now, I am an adult in this room, completing visa application paperwork and attending foundation staff meetings. I am now arranging what will go into long-term storage and what is coming with me in one checked and one carry-on bag. I am assembling my med kit with creams and pills. I choose toiletries, lanterns, socks. Every decision seems to carry so much weight. And I have to weigh it all in under the airline limit, too. All this physical preparation accompanies the social burden of goodbyes. My family have said intercontinental goodbyes to me many times over the years. None of my friends here have had to say farewell to me. They are all from my most recent phase of living, the long Portland stretch. No one wants the last time to be the last time. I try to reassure them that I will be back, but they treat me like I am disappearing forever. I remind myself how much practice I have with goodbyes - an essential skill for any missionary.
Then the day finally comes. The last day in Oregon. I am up most of the night repacking my luggage, which has somehow gone from underweight a week ago to now 10 lbs over. I must have been panic-shopping towards the end. After an early-morning Starbucks goodbye with the sisters, and then a final hug with mom at the airport, I am sipping my last Oregon beer next to my gate with my feet perched on my perfectly packed carry-on. Six flights total take me to Charlotte for a few days of onboarding and then onward to my final destination of Nampula, Mozambique. After a night in the city, we take motorcycles the rest of the way to my new home of Corrane. My checked back was lost along the way, and I arrive in my temporary room with just my small duffel bag. I feel adrift, dazed, dizzy in the free fall of this leap I have taken. I am raw, small, and vulnerable. I have removed so many layers of comfort, protection, familiarity, and control. I have stripped back my life of objects, people, places, and work. All that is left is me and this carry-on bag. Nothing makes sense, but it isn't supposed to. The emptiness feels scary at first, but the longer I sit with it, the more I realize it is peace.
Another moon, another cycle.
Limitless possibilities.
Lightness and darkness competing in harmony.
Opposites in compassionate embrace.
Return to the virtue of infancy
to the eternal beginning of wholeness.
The dark womb waxes into expression
and wanes into stillness.
Ready to receive anew.
Returning to the uncarved block.
Honoring the preciousness of the void.
