Heart of a Wanderer

I just did a quick tally of how many times we've moved all our junk.  Then I tallied it again.  And again.  And then once more, just to be sure.  We've moved the majority of our stuff 7 times in 7.5 years.  Without professional assistance.  (We've had 13 different addresses in the not-quite-9 years we've been married, too, but my back doesn't care so much about that.)  

We've moved:

Halfway across the country.

From one coast to the other. 

When I had pneumonia.

When Jeremelon had the stomach flu.

When the car got a flat and then the truck got two just shy of the desert.

When our relief driver got pulled over to allow the cops to go through our trunk under suspicion of drug running.

With no idea where we were going to live when we arrived.

With the power prematurely shut off, so that we had to complete our move-out by portable lamp light.

In the heat.

In the cold.

In the snow.

In the rain.

In every season.

For good reasons.

For difficult reasons.

For new beginnings.

For old debts.

Without loss of limb, though occasionally of pride.

Without breaking anything that wasn't already on its last legs...

...until today.

Growing up, I never had any intention of living anywhere but Colorado; why leave what you love?  Yet I've now lived in New Mexico, Florida, California, and Arizona.  Pretty much everyone I know makes jokes about how often we move.  So do we!  (My current favorite is that we must be moving to Texas next, 'cause it's the only state left on my "Never will I live there!" list.)  Yet there comes a time when nearly everyone also gives us the crazy eye.  The one that asks, "How and why the BLEEP do you do that??"  or scrutinizes us for some deep-seated insanity not otherwise apparent.  It seems to make a lot of people uncomfortable, and I suppose, if I try really hard to think back before we got married, I can understand.  It's a big change to move across a city, let alone a country.  You leave behind all you know, all the people you care about (or almost all of them), and just *go.*  It's scary.  It's threatening.  And when you're doing it to pursue a dream, it becomes even moreso.  That's when the jokes get kind of ugly.

In spite of all the difficulties, though - all the trials and unknowns (including who will still have room for us when we come back again) - all these moves have made us better people.  I learned patience, fortitude, and to have faith in myself and my circumstances.  I learned to trust new people in ways I never would have otherwise.  Sure, coming back to the cold shoulders of the West after experiencing the casual warmth of Southern familiarity imparted a hefty dose of cynicism.  And yeah, the things to do in ordinary cities can't compare to having DisneyWorld and all its surrounds in one's figurative backyard.  Yes, I miss the friends we left behind.  I regret the time we sacrificed with old friends as they grew and changed and lived while we were away.  But there is one thing that all this moving has given me that I would likely never have earned without it: Perspective.

I have been a minority in several different settings now.  I know, firsthand, what culture clash looks like on a subtle level.  I know what immigrants add to our Great American Melting Pot, and through them, have come to understand exactly how much cultural context influences our lives.  I've seen how privileged I was to grow up where and how I did, and will never stop being grateful for it.  My anthropological background would be sorely lacking without all these stressful, often difficult changes of scenery.  More than that, *I* would be sorely lacking as a human being.  Perspective is a beautiful thing.  It's tricky, too, in that one can't fit inside the same box after growing into a new perspective.  It means that spaces where the past and present intersect get weird, awkward, and more difficult than they would have been before.  

Sometimes, I get frustrated with our lack of roots.  In those moments, the mean-spirited jokes cut deeper than I should let them.  We both have victimized ourselves with shame at our lack of career advancement and empty bank account.  I've been guilty, more often than I care to admit, of anger and hurt over our lack of close, personal ties.  Because I forget.  I forget that moving is a costly business.  I forget that in isolation, I've forged greater self-reliance.  I forget the inner strength I've earned through 7 instances of picking up my whole world and changing it from the foundation up.  I forget that the world keeps turning, and that I've met some amazing people in my wandering.

Today, I remembered.  Today, I glared at the many boxes of junk my mom emptied from my childhood closet for me when she sold the house.  I gleefully stuck my standee of Commander Riker in various places to glare back at us, simultaneously reminding me of pranks my brother used to play and of Miller and his obsession with positioning standees for maximum awkwardness and personal amusement.  My excruciatingly heavy box of Archaeology and Romance Writers of America magazines reminded me of all the time, effort, and energy I poured into my dreams and craft when I committed to my path in Albuquerque.  The equally awful box of Jeremelon's film books and school papers made me think of the Paper Hat crew, dinners at O'Boys, and a contextually hysterical progression of Why America Rules...and then the moment I was graced with the ability to see it from a foreign perspective. Berrykin's exersaucer made me miss my baby, but his attempt to summit the giant tower of boxes made me all the more proud of my adventurous, fearless little boy.  In that tower are traces of the kids who lived across the street, of old friends I'll never see again, of my high school circle, of the Meadows gang.  It's full of family long gone, newly lost, and still nearby.  Looking at pictures of our overflowing apartment, I'm struck with the notion that this is not just my past crammed in wherever we could fit it.  It's also me.  All of it, even the ridiculous number of giant boxes of Star Wars collectibles that aren't mine.  It's all where I come from, the path I've walked.  It's the people I've loved, the experiences I've hated.  More than just memories, it's a physical representation of who I am.  If an historian or archaeologist were to sift through it, they would puzzle together a much more accurate portrait of my true self than most people who know me ever could.  And isn't that both a beautiful thing and a terrible shame?

As I sit here, my recently dislocated shoulder aches fiercely.  My ankles and left knee have swollen.  My arms feel so sore, they're like to fall off.  I am bone weary and not an inch of me is left without feeling all its work of the past day and a half.  I have no idea whatsoever what we're going to do with all this stuff, even though we're supposed to be hosting Thanksgiving in six weeks.  As Jeremelon reminded me, we're probably going to have to do it all over again in seven months, regardless.  I have every right to feel stressed and done in, but I don't.  All I feel is a happy glow, because for this moment after the day's work is done and tomorrow's challenge not yet begun, I feel replete.  I have all the threads of my past woven around my fingers, and all I have to do is tug to connect with the people, places, ideas, dreams, hopes, risks, failures, and successes that have made me who I am today. 

To all of you who have contributed to my pile of stuff, whether you know what you added or not, I offer my gratitude.  You have made my moves through life all the more interesting and worthwhile.  From the heart of a wanderer, thank you for adding to my tower; without you, my perspective wouldn't be nearly the same.  

But please, forgive me if I give away whatever physical object represents our association.  Some of these boxes are darn heavy, and my back isn't what it used to be. ;)