Friday, March 7, 2014

I would rather not move again.

My friend just left Arizona to move to Florida.  I helped her pack.  I gave her a hug.  And I sent her on her way, happy that it wasn't me.

I'm not sure I would willingly move again.

I know some people think of it as an adventure.  I have a friend who travels from furnished room to furnished room from city to city with only a back pack containing his belongings.

Me, I like my stuff.  I like my dogs and my books and my comfy bed and my desk.  My glass studio.  My sewing machine.  My tools and work bench.  My stuff.  

I like knowing where to shop and having a doctor I trust.  I like knowing how to get where I am going without getting lost.

I don't want to have to worry about which of my belongings will fit in a van, truck, or pod destined for another location.  I try to keep the accumulation down, but closets and cupboards seem to spontaneously create more things to fill them.

I wasn't born in this house.  I wasn't even born in this state.  I've moved 11 times in my adult life.

But I have been in this house for 16 years.

Eventually, I'll have to move again. I suspect that at some point I will be unable to navigate the stairs.

But until then, I am staying put.

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