I have. Literally and figuratively.
I am a rooter married to one.
As such, I find myself in migration patterns, and currently consider myself more than halfway through the current one. While the transition periods are difficult, I have learned that this type of moveable effort is actually quite good for me. I've lived in various parts of the country, something I never thought I would do. My family tends to stay put in one specific area, and to this day, my immediate family all lives within a few miles of each other.
I've been thinking about the person who moved to Utah at the ripe old age of 26. I trekked across the country on I-80 for three days, in a '96 Ford Explorer holding some belongings, my mother, and my infant son, and following a 36 foot Penske truck. What a trip! Gas was outrageous at the time. The scenery was, and shall always be, boring. Lots of corn. Lots of windmills. Lots of cattle. Lots of. Nothing.
I remember crying some as we drove along. Sometimes Noah joined in with me if it was time to eat. He was a pure angel on that trip. The sunniest of dispositions you would ever find resided in that sweet boy. His smile lit up an entire room. Or car.
I learned that one should be mindful of the gas gauge. I learned that the amazing "oasis" called "Little America" was a joke to a Midwesterner, but pure, unadulterated truth to a person from Wyoming. I laughed a lot as the miles added up, enjoying the presence of my mother, with the stresses of the pre-moving process behind us. But, as the miles left in front of that well used vehicle became less than the miles behind, my anxiety increased. As we crossed the state line, my heart sank. Mom knew. And she let me sort it out in silence. Noah had no pertinent comments to add so he kept to himself. And we rode thus for quite some time.
We had some difficulty finding our new place out in the wilderness of Eagle Mountain. And by the time we arrived it was late afternoon. The house was gorgeous. It really was. Placed on a postage stamp of .11 acres, was a 4 bedroom, 3 bath house with a very nice kitchen and open floor plan. I'd still love to live in that house, in just about ANY place but Eagle Mountain. Eagle Mountain is where social lives go to die. (I apologize to any of my EM readers, but you have to admit, a decade ago it did not have nearly the connections it has today.)
I was basically a hermit the year we lived there. I didn't know too many people. I was expecting Aaron which meant I was vomiting daily/hourly(minutely?)for eight months. Ryan left several times for civilian and military trainings. I don't know how I survived that. Just me. And baby Noah. And. No one. Honestly, I try to picture that year and I see snippets, but it was a blur of housework, baby tending, lawn mowing, desperate loneliness, and the horror that is pregnancy.
I did survive. And the years that followed became precious to me. The memories and friendships will last through my lifetime.
New York has proven to have many of the same, but also many different transitions. At more than halfway, (I don't know if we are really counting but Tennessee is calling) I have some memories, and some kindred spirits that happened along my way. True friends. Scrabble players. Also some truly difficult times and experiences. A lot of personal growth.
The summation is a life lived. Experienced. Rooted. Uprooted. Loved. Re-loved. I can't believe some of the things I've done. And I am certain I can't believe some of the things I will do.
It's exciting and intimidating and usually not too boring.
I am hoping at my next stop, the stop where the cost of living is less astronomical, I can devote myself to writing as more than a hobby.
Perhaps I am also becoming a tumbleweed....
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