I can't stop thinking of leaving. Of roots. Of wandering. Of spending a whole life living in the house I grew up in only to move when I found myself alone for the first time--then to move again & again & again. Six times, now, in seven years. It becomes all about nesting. My things...books, empty nests, bones, art, scraps of wood and furniture pulled from other people's trash, lace, shells, spent blooms, old photos. My belongings matter because I make home happen wherever I end up by surrounding myself with familiar talismans.
I seek out new places. I start over. I throw tarot cards and the Chariot comes and I know I am moving even before the house presents itself to me. I daydream out of windows that aren't mine--decorating bedrooms I'll never sleep in and worrying about dinner parties with friends I fear won't come in kitchens I'll never set foot in. I decide where the bookcases will go. I count the miles for commuting. I imagine running or walking in the area and how it will feel to carry myself across unknown streets. I can picture everything. Except staying.
Now, I've found my next one to move into next month. Another cape cod. Another red door. Another parkland view. A zip code I never planned to return to. A heart-of-winter move when the whole world looks stark and unforgiving. A heart-of-winter move when it is the perfect time for hibernating inside and starting over again. Then, spring will close in and blunt the edges of the unfamiliar and I will open windows wide. And breathe.
And call it home.