As much as I am somewhat of an introvert, a homebody if you will, I have a healthy dose of wanderlust in my blood.  I come by it honestly through a childhood of frequent moves and my own voluntary entry as an adult to a life spent in and around the military.  Having been in our current home over five years, I have been engaged in a raging emotional battle as my internal moving alarm has been persistently jarring me from any sense of domestic complacency.  I know something is amiss when I gaze wistfully at motels as we drive by, yearning for the days when we were reduced to the simplicity of a few suitcases, the preponderance of our earthly possessions tucked away in storage or safely stowed in a moving van.  If I had my druthers, most of our things would be forever in transit, never reaching a final destination.  It would be easier that way.

It’s time to move.  Who needs this two-story home with its high taxes?  I take my husband on weekend drives in older neighborhoods, filled with smaller dwellings that promise a simpler life.  We will sell our house, drastically downsize, and make the move.  It will be better that way.  We even speak with our builder, and he makes us an attractive offer on a smaller home in a nearby subdivision.

In preparation, we have our sun damaged deck replaced and refinished.  Did I tell you that our lot backs up to a dense stand of trees and lush bushes?  We buy a pergola, the better to shade the space and draw in potential buyers.  I decorate with some pretty potted plants, certain to impress.  For the first time ever, we sit in the shade and enjoy breakfast in the cool morning air.  Examining our handiwork, my husband turns to me.  “Where will we find another lot like this?”  I have no answer.  I think of our day lilies enthusiastically budding; they will burst into a profusion of beautiful blooms any day now.   I think of the seasons to come, of the fall pumpkins against the warm brick stairs leading to our red door that will yield to brightly lit Christmas greens in December. “Why are we doing this?” he asks me.  For the life of me, I can’t remember.   We talk about our next project; after five years, a home needs some tender loving care.  We may need to stay a while.

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