On Moving and Moving On

My mother always said “two moves are as good as a fire.” This was hard won wisdom, as we moved a lot when I was a kid - like six times in 10 years—the first being a major downsize from the mid-century modern house she and my dad built and raised six kids in for 15 years or so. She found moving stressful, but she was also a pro. The church friends would show up early in the morning with their trucks and station wagons and laughter, and there was always a big pot of chili in the crockpot that could be easily moved from the old place to the new to feed the crew. And then, in the evening or the next morning, we’d return to the old place to clean. I mean scrub the walls from top to bottom, and scour the cabinets in and out: really clean like people seldom seem to do today. 

As an adult, I’m now in the midst of my 12th move, in my 5th city/state/province. We’ve upsized and downsized, and upsized, and are downsizing once more as, after nine years of renting, we finally purchase our first home -  a lovely, modest townhouse - here in California. 

Fire seems like a dramatic metaphor for this process now - especially here in California, where so many people have tragically lost everything to wildfire in recent years. Moving is not, generally, a tragedy. But I take my mother’s point: moving requires purging, and when the move out date is approaching rapidly, you don’t have time to go all Marie-Kondo on every item before you pack or sell, giveaway, or toss. You have to make quick decisions on what to save and what to let go. What is essential and what is simply accumulation. You must LET GO, because you must GET OUT. And then you land and find yourself with, simply, less stuff. You are unencumbered, and you look around you at what made it through, and you wonder, “why did I keep THAT?” And so you toss some more. 

We move in a month, and so I now have a third job that is basically monitoring responses to the dozens of items I’ve posted on my local buy-nothing social media group and then moving them to my front porch for pick-up. Yesterday, I packed all the books and tchotchkes in our living room that I can’t do without into boxes and labeled them for transport, just so that when I sit down with a cup of coffee, I see less stuff and begin to prepare, mentally, for the transition.

This is hard. We have loved our big, bright, rental home and the amazing neighborhood with its hundreds of trick-or-treaters, a lap-laned pool, and a tennis/pickleball court a block away. We’ve been spoiled. And we’ve filled all the space with amazing thrifted finds that we now need to find new homes for. But, as we anticipate the future, I know this is the right move for us. We need to downsize, simplify, and look to the future. And we will come to love our new place, too, which will finally be more truly “our own.” 

But my mother also said that it takes two years to feel at home in a new place. So as we prepare for the move, I anticipate that feeling of disruption and dislocation, one I know will linger for a while. And I tell myself it will be okay. We’ll make a new home for ourselves. Again. 

This also feels like a metaphor for my life. The last year has been one of immense disruption, transition, loss, and dislocation: I’ve experienced the death of a beloved family member and the passing of my dear mentor and nonprofit boss; nursed our young adult child through a major, extended health crisis; and transitioned both back into teaching and into a new professional leadership role and set of responsibilities. I’ve had to let a LOT go of and have had to keep moving forward, even when I felt overcome with grief, anxiety, and overwhelm. And, I tell myself, it will be okay. I will make a new home for myself. Again. And again. As I keep on moving. Moving into a new place, a new life, a new future. As I rebuild and refashion and rethink how I want to be in the world, with others. Much has been stripped away, and I’m left claiming what is essential: love, hope, connection, generosity, imagination.

The day we were preparing to submit our offer on the new place, my husband looked me in the eye and said, “We’ve been through a lot the last few months. I’m just wondering if maybe we shouldn’t wait a year, and just … rest.” Huh, I thought. That’s a good point. Maybe we should. Rest sounds good. And I’m so comfortable here. That would be nice.

And so I said, oh wow, maybe you’re right. But then something shifted into place in my mind, and I said, but no, I don’t think so. I think we have to do this now. It will only be harder, and more expensive, a year from now.  Let’s get moving. Let’s keep moving.