Moving and transition. I naturally long for depth, so 3 moves in a year seems too much. Disjointed. Fragmented. Yet there is much I have learned in moving. I want to plan out my transitions and know what’s next. I want to transition when I’m ready-when I have a plan and a job and a clear purpose. But none of that is true now. I want moving to be adventurous, a new beginning. Yes, it is true that every move has these elements. While there’s a part of me that longs for anonymity and a chance to reinvent myself-I know that’s a lie. I can’t run away from myself. My fatigue will still follow me.
I’m moving 7 minutes away. My days will largely look the same, but am looking to write more. I have the same community and I long for healing that I may have the opportunity to teach at the same school I resigned from in November. This is not a move of newness, but more like sameness. A calling to do the everyday well. A calling to greater depths of honesty, rest, and relationship. A calling to live out the person I am with greater artistry. A calling to let my mess be seen. I have called the Marott home for 5 months. I will miss its 1920’s rustic hotel appearance and the small chandelier in my living room. I will miss my view, and surprising sunrises while washing dishes.
But more than that I will miss the tangible remembrance of inviting people into my home and letting them see my simple, overly structured life. These people ate lamb and brussel sprouts with me and knew they could only stay for two hours before I got really tired. People helped me embrace my life, even when I wanted to run. I didn’t have to hide or fake it. I didn’t have to be a perfect hostess, overly conversational, or a picture of health. I could be me, figuring out life in a new city, in my little apartment. And I could just be: without explaining, defending or justifying myself. But these memories come with me, for they are part of me. Even in the moving.