Three moves are as good as a fire. So, after moving six times in fifteen years of marriage, the only 200-pound furnishing still found in my home is my husband. And my mom’s 1964 Steinway piano…but that’s another story for another time.
Perhaps, my many moves not only indicate a lack of old stuff, but also a lack of stability on my part. Yet, perhaps, they also show a sense of adventure. I guess I find packing boxes more fulfilling and less life risking than say mountain climbing or skydiving. Besides, isn’t the goal of any of those escapades just to end up on a different spot of land than from where you began? I simply prefer furniture pads to knee pads.
I must also confess that I love the attention of coming and going. A neighborhood never comes alive more than when someone new arrives or when someone established departs. During our most recent move from California (also our most frequent move – to and from) we had neighbors coming over saying how much they were going to miss us, and all I could think was I’ve never even seen the inside of your house. I had one neighbor send us a Christmas card (the first in our three years of knowing one another) two weeks after we’d moved, and I found out I’d been referring to them as the Goldsmith family when they were really the Goldberg family. Clearly, we were very close. Still, the attention was great, and so were the sticky buns (Thank you Nelson Nielsen family!).
Nevertheless, my wanderlust is waning. I no longer have the burning (pardon the pun) desire to see if the grass is greener on the other side. The attention you get with hellos and goodbyes lacks something when compared to the affection that grows over years of sticking around. I’ve realized it’s time to trade in my moving for a little more meaning…and take up mountain climbing.