I have moved 26 times in 31 years, an average of 1.192 years in each apartment, duplex, house, basement, spare room, and closet. This includes stops in 11 cities in five states: Oregon (Dallas, Salem, and Portland), Louisiana (Bossier City), Kansas (Salina, Tescott, and Gypsum), Nebraska (Lincoln and Omaha), and California (Pittsburg and Chico). Later this year I will turn 32 and make Move 27, bringing my average down to 1.185. The other two stats will remain unchanged because it looks like we will be moving back to a city in which I have already lived: Chico, California.
I hate moving. I am weary from it. I feel like I have two moves left in me. This next move, in mid-fall, likely to another rental, will get us to the region where we will settle down. The second move will be (must be) to a property we own. A piece of land with space for a large garden and a few animals, space for Molly to run and explore, room to walk and to breathe, room for the imagination, to sink roots. It disheartens me a little that the second move can’t be the first, but I am obligated to be realistic.
Over the next several months I am going to occasionally use this blog as a place to work through some of my ideas and feelings about the meaning of “home.” Moving so often has led to a multi-faceted detachment – from place, relationships, consequences, emotions, etc. (more about this in future posts). What happens when I say “here and no further?” What does it mean to stay put?