Friday, August 17, 2012


When Ducky and I finally decided to get married I thought the hard part was done.  Commitment has never been an easy choice for me.  Nothing much in my life has been permanent since my mom and I moved to a little bustling island when I was six.  She had married my stepfather and things were never the same. 

From birth to six I had been quite rooted.  My feet firmly planted in the midwestern soil, gobs and gobs of relatives surrounding me like plants in my very own garden, all tall and happy and waving in the breeze.  I didn't even know that other places existed. 

Then all the talk about moving, and Oahu and the 'military'.  I overheard one of my aunts talking about it, this military thing, and didn't know what it meant.  She clucked her tongue, when I asked what it meant, who they were, and she said, 'they are like us, but different, they are a group, they move a lot.'

I translated this in my mind to some cult or ethnic group, a nomadic tribe maybe, but definintely somewhere that I didn't belong.

I wasn't that far off, to be honest.

From then on we moved every 3 years or so, just like most military families do, and we got used to it.  I got used to it.   When the marriage finally dissolved, I grabbed my ticket home and flew there as fast as I could.  Well- my mom and I drove there.  But we did it pretty fast.  I was just 17 years old.

Pulling into Littledale in the wee hours of that morning that we arrived, I felt such a relief.  The streets were empty in this little spot, this tiny neighborhood my aunt lives in.  It feels so small but you can see the big city clear as day right out the window.  It was 3 am and summer and the air smelled so sweet and the street lamps cast a yellow glow over those deserted streets and I thought that all was finally made right in the world.  I was home.

But something about that moving bug had really gotten under my skin and I found myself moving out west less than 2 years later.  Then back home.  Then west again, without a boyfriend this time.  And here I still sit, some 12 years later.

As I have gotten older the wanderlust that I felt before has faded away and slowly something more roots oriented has arrived.  It calls me back to the midwest.  It calls me home.  Sometimes I'm not sure if what I feel is nostalgia for what I had as a child or if it is nostalgia for something I haven't even ever lived.

I think about Ducky and I buying a home, like buying one, and just living there, in the midwest, by my family.  I imagine planting things in the backyard, things that aren't annuals.

I imagine thrift store shopping with my cousin, finding things that you can't find out here.  Here is too young for these things, this town doesn't have the history.

My heart longs for these things.  But even as I long for them I can feel the panic wrap its hand around my heart...

what if we move there, if i take him back there, and we hate it???
what if it is too hot or too cold or both?? what if my family won't let me breathe?  what if we want to leave?  how could we just BE somewhere FOREVER???  like NEVER move??? NEVER??? FOREVER?!?!?!!??

This sense of impermanence has seeped through all my life for decades.  I don't buy furniture that will last, that is worth anything.  I don't invest in 'pieces'.  Everything I buy goes through the mental filter of how it will be moved, even if no move is planned.  I feel burdened when I have more than I could throw in a car... so basically like, all the time.  :)

anyway.  this was supposed to be about something else.  about this new time with my new husband.  but i guess my brain had another plan.    Or maybe this is the start of me figuring out how to be married again.  Maybe I am renegotiating this permanent thing that I chose once and found to be impermanent. 


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