(You may want to read my previous post, first.)
Twenty-two years ago we moved away from the mountains of California to the desert of Nevada. Our relatives and friends thought we were crazy, but didn't complain too much since we'd only be three hours away by car.
Then seventeen years ago when we told our Nevada friends we were moving to New York, they looked at us odd. Nevadans, when we'd mention New York, would wrinkle their noses as though the whole, entire state was New York City. Those same nose-wrinklers had never visited here, never seen the thousands of miles of green, gorgeous farmland and the two calm, blue Great Lakes. And Niagara Falls. And--
Besides, New York was thousands of miles away so why go there? they'd ask. Why not just stay (and bake) in the Nevada Desert? Why venture out to the unknown? But in the midst of all the questions we moved away, giving-up lots of our furniture to our friends. Nice furniture, not just the kind you're too lazy to haul away to the dump. And even sometimes one of my friends still speaks of her surprise that we gave her family the good stuff.
Until we moved to New York I'd never lived in the same house for more than two and three-fourth years. I was 34 years old. I'd lived in that tiny California mountain town for 12 years and that was a record by far, but still, had never lived in the same house for even 3 years. Someone in Nevada once teased Tom about having Gypsy blood. I think they are right, for he often speaks of moving and in that respect, he reminds me of Pa Ingalls who always spoke of moving farther West. But somehow, we managed to live in the very same Buffalo suburb home for nearly 15 years--smashing my record, indeed. And when we moved, we gave away at least one-third of our possessions.
And now we are speaking of moving again, this time to Oregon (visions of Pa Ingalls once more). heh. But before we do, if we sell this house before Tom is ready to retire, well, most likely we'll rent a small place again as we did before we moved to this farm.
And everything will be all right. We have such fond memories of that one-bedroom apartment we shared in 2008 and we hold no dread if we return to something like that to await the big move. Still we will keep on living and dreaming and walking and riding and blogging and loving and being happy.
I once read in a (Christian) woman's blog that her adult children told her and her husband that they'd better never, ever sell the family home--or else. The woman thought that was cute, but I found it disturbing. I'm still looking for the Bible verse which says it's godly for children to boss around their perfectly healthy parents, to tell them to stay right where they are.
Where am I going in all this rambling? I'm going here: I often ask God to remind me not to live like this temporary world will last forever. As they say, "it's all gonna burn." And someday I will be gone. But in the meantime, may I hold onto everything upon my opened palm, allowing all to come and go, respecting ebbs and flows and changes and losses and differences and seasons.
Ah, those seasons!