I should be an old pro at moving.  During my childhood, my parents moved from place to place quite frequently.  They’ve been in one place for over 12 years now, but after 5 I trotted out towards college life–and haven’t stayed put anywhere for more than my current 13 month record.

The story of my life is intertwined with the loss, change, and adaptation of moving.  The goodbyes, the fresh starts, the cleaning, the empty space.  I doubt this is unique.  In today’s society of upward mobility the family that stays put in one place is the abnormality.  30 years in a home–let alone a job, is a thing of the past.

Still, my sincerest wish has always been to stay put in one place–one job, one home.  To grow roots so thick and deep that moving them would be torture.  And yet, I look at this new home that is solely MINE and my husbands–and I wonder if I will really want to be there for 30 years.  Perhaps my dreams of country life outweigh my dreams of stability.

It’s been busy around here.  Too busy to ponder one’s future when one’s present is so full.  Yet, my mind is beginning to wander down the path of those future years.  Is stability a reality?  Is the pioneer spirit, is Pa Ingalls, ingrained upon our genetic makeup and staying still would end the adventure?  Has my past directly decided my future?  Is moving in my blood?  Will growing roots ever satisfy?

Usually, I don’t like uncertainty.  But, in this case, this far down the road… I like the not knowing.  It is the journey, after all, not just the ending destination.  So much of my life has been spent waiting for the next thing to happen–to graduate, to get married, to have a career, and so on and so on.  I feel like I’m finally at a point where I can sit back and enjoy the here, the now.  I’m excited for the future, for a family–but I’m not rushing it, I’m not pining after it.  I’m living one day at a time–I never thought that would be fulfilling, but with my future stretched out before me–it finally feels satisfying.

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