My family and I just completed another move.
Okay, I know, I know, most people have experienced moving at some point in their life, but I feel I have a special relationship (love/hate relationship…mostly hate) with the process. In the past eight years we’ve moved eleven times. Don’t get me wrong, the moves were mostly for the best. We chased opportunities: school; work; life experiences. We did most of the moves before having children, which, now that I’ve experienced two moves with children, was a wise decision.
But for the past eight years we’ve never really settled. We’ve always had furniture in storage. We’ve never unpacked clothing for more than one or two seasons at a time. We’ve collected artwork and mementos from our travels and stored them in boxes. We’ve never even put pictures on walls for fear of impacting our damage-deposits.
The next move was always on the horizon.
And that’s why this move is so different. We’re finally in a place we intend to be for the foreseeable future. We’ve taken all our belongings with us—including pictures and artwork—and intend to fully settle in. We’re putting roots down for the first time in as long as I can remember.
I’m really happy about it. It’s only been a couple days, but I’ve even found that my writing output is increasing now that I have a dedicated space to actually write in. I’ll talk more about what I’m working on in the coming posts, but wanted to share a bit about my experience finally putting down some roots.
Roots… it’s nice to have those again.