We’re moving. Again. Ouch! I’ve moved 22 times in my life (6 of them as a child, with my parents), including a move halfway across the world. This is going to be my 23rd move. So you would imagine that I’m a seasoned hand at this. But it still stresses me out. At that, we’re taking the easy way out — using movers. But we’ve still got to do the packing. And there’s so much to pack! So much to sort through, to throw away, to lovingly encase in bubble-wrap, to carefully stack in boxes.
I may not enjoy the process, but I am glad we’re moving. I have never liked the apartment in which we live right now. It is a huge 2-bedroom with a balcony (such a luxury in NYC) with hardwood floors and nice finishes. But it never felt like home. The new apartment we are moving to, on the other hand, feels like home already, even though we haven’t moved in yet. It is in a lovely neighborhood, right by the river, with a gorgeous view. I am such a sucker for views. I’ll compromise on space, and all sorts of other things, in order to have windows that I want to gaze out of for hours on end.
I hope we can stay there for a good long time. In our peripatetic lives, this means that I’m hoping for 5 years. I’ve been a gypsy for so long, and I want to put down some roots now. I’ve moved away from so many friends — I want to stay close to the ones I have now. It used to be an adventure — a grand new chapter of life. But each time I put down the tentative beginnings of roots, there was the pain of being uprooted.Unlike the Buddha, I long for the right to be attached and stay attached — at least for a while.