It’s that time of year, when goings happen. There are so many graduations with young people moving onto the next chapter of their lives. Several friends are moving—Dulcie just moved into a new house, my best friend, Janene, is moving from Tennessee to Texas, and Regina is moving from Italy to New Zealand soon. Moving has always fascinated me, I suppose because I’ve never moved much.

My family lived in the same house my entire life. Mom and Dad still live there in that little pink brick house nestled between two hills and a creek in a row of similar houses. My first move was from that house to a college dorm, but that didn’t really count because I came home holidays, summers, and every weekend. My first real move was to an apartment I lived in for nine months the year I got married. That was a huge, unsettling shift for me. After I graduated college, my husband and I moved again. This time, one hundred miles away from all I had ever known to a bigger town with busy highways I had a hard time navigating. I cried a lot. The ground beneath me felt so unstable with no friends or family close by. I had my husband’s family, and I loved them, but it wasn’t the same.

We lived with my husband’s grandmother on what felt like the family complex. His mother and aunt were right next-door, and Mamaw had just lost Papaw, so the landscape there had changed for everyone. I only knew I had lost my home. Soon we moved to an apartment. That’s where I began to find more stable footing. I had my own space. We found a church to attend where there were other young couples our age. Having friends helped steady the still shifting landscape.

A couple of years later, we bought a house not far from that apartment. We lived there eight years. Our son was born there. It was small and on a busy road. That scared us with a little active son who needed more room to play and grow. So, we moved far, far, far away from that house to a slice of heaven on seven acres. An old farmhouse more than a hundred years old with a barn, a smokehouse, a hen house, a falling down garage, a greenhouse, mountain views near the lake, and peace. It was far from work and church and friends, but we liked being away from it all. Our son was never that crazy about the place. He didn’t like being upstairs in bed while his dad and I were downstairs. He didn’t like being outside. He never was an explorer. He enjoyed organized sports, and when he wasn’t doing that, he wanted to be inside.

We’ve been here sixteen years and have no real plans to leave. Sure, we talk about it occasionally, but in the end, we stay. Our son has grown up and just graduated college. He’ll move on soon, but I’m still here. It feels like things move around me. Over the years, things and people in our lives have changed, moved and shifted. Friendships became more difficult with the distance and the children who demanded our time. People have moved out of the town where I live and on, but I stay in the same place. I watch programs on television where others leave all that’s familiar to explore new jobs and cultures in foreign lands. I watch while tucked safely into the home I’ve settled in. My roots are here. I enjoy the views out my windows. I’m settled here. With so much movement around me, it’s comforting to know that view outside my window doesn’t change.

This is the nature of my life. People leave. I stay. The movement outside my space of peace makes me feel off-balance, dizzy sometimes. It’s unsettling, but I stay . . . at home, sheltered from the movement and the going.

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