Moving

I’m retiring December 1, selling my house, moving across the country. 

I’m moving. Again. 

I hate to move. And yet, here I sit ready to move for the fourth time in four years. 

Ron and I moved in year one to be near the grandkids. We moved in year two to have more room for the grandkids. That move represented so much. Sickness, hope. Dying, hopelessness. 

So, I moved again in year three. A place to call my own as I sought to find myself. Hoping to leave sickness, pain, and death behind. In some ways it worked. New surroundings and all they bring with them. New chances to make my way on my own. But there are always memories. Memories marked by days on the calenda. Special days just keep popping up. They have to be dealt with. Sometimes that works out with ease. Other times, they are just stinking hard. 

This brings me to move number four. Strangely enough, this one is the easiest — even leaving most everything behind. This time I know without a doubt that the past will not be finely slotted into a drawer. This time, I join someone who has been on a similar journey. Someone willing to share in the past. The past sitting right beside the present and the future.  

What I’ve come to understand in this move is that possessions are easy to dispense and discard. They may look like some sort of sum of a life. In reality, they are nothing. A life of memories, joys, hurts, events. These are the cornerstones. These are the parts that molded me into who I am. These are the very fibers of my being. 

But I’m not done yet. The past isn’t stagnant. The present and future. They are in the process of molding my new past. My new fiber. Moving into a new me.