We’re moving and I’m panicking.
We’re moving and I’m thrilled.
We’re moving to Wyoming, exchanging one rodeo town for another. The high desert for the high plains, our house for an apartment, stability for adventure.
When my husband started applying for jobs I knew that there was a very real possibility we would hit the road this winter or spring.
We talked about it ad nauseam. On our walks, in the car, over dinner. We hashed out the benefits, the drawbacks, the things we wanted for ourselves, our careers, our non-existent social lives. We combed through the considerations we’re making for our future family and for the two of us now.
“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” My husband asked, before he signed his offer letter.
“I am,” I said, through a mouthful of cheese wisps. I have terrible timing when it comes to crunchy snacks and momentous occasions.
He hit send, toppling us into our new adventure on the wings of a PDF attachment.
We’ve already called the realtor--he’ll list the house in three days.
I finally found the time to tidy the backyard, rake the last of the leaves, and change out the old two-prong outlets for three. We pulled our nicknacks off the shelves; packaged my slowly multiplying Wedgwood collection in bubble wrap and tissue. I found tidy hiding places for our wedding photos in their fancy frames, tucked in a box full of keepsakes.
Oh, I hate this nostalgia. I hate the mixture of excitement and anguish that wells up, thinking of a new town, a new start, the things we’re leaving behind. And the angst: all the things to do, to pack.
I hate how much stuff I’ve accumulated. So many spare batteries, books, pencils and pens and back-issues of magazines. Sweaters I’ve forgotten about, extra towels, pots and potting soil and hoses and rakes and spice bottles, tea. Every turn around the house turns into another chance to earmark: You can go; You, I’ll leave.
We painted this place top to bottom when we moved in. It used to be the dullest, angriest beige. My office is a cheery yellow, now--patches of the old dust-colored paint sneak through in the corners. Another touch up, I think.
The big steady oak tree still stands guard outside my window.
My husband chose a marvelous sky blue for his office room. He decorated with his guitar, football scarves tacked lengthwise, ceiling to floor. His heirloom toy soldiers lined up in rows. Me, poking my head in when we both work from home-- “Do you have an appointment, ma’am?”
Our first home together. The yard that we spent countless hours digging, seeding, watering, reseeding. Pulling weeds by hand on our bellies in the summer sun, sipping G&Ts. The raised beds where we grew basil in bunches, rows of carrots, tidy green peppers ripe and sweet.
I won’t taste the raspberries from the bush nestled near our neighbor’s fence.
I won’t see my new tulips rise from their bed at the foot of the patio when they wake from their long winter’s nap.
I won’t feel the shade from the trees we planted, compact merlot redbuds tucked in the corners of the yard. Their trunks are still just the width of my two thumbs pressed together. Still staked against the wind.
It’s not the space or the stuff that makes it home, though. It’s not the paint in the rooms, the trinkets, or the trees.
It’s the comfort of cooking dinner to share. It’s the long walks over gravel paths as the slanting sun slips below the western hills. It’s picking paint colors together and finding out, to my bemusement and annoyance, that my color-blind husband has impeccable taste in shades of gray.
Wherever we’re moving will be home with the two of us there.
Forza! Moving is no fun at all...wishing you strength and lots of extra good humor.
Lovely, DJ. Where in Wyoming??