What an intimate relationship, the one we have with the homes we have lived in.

The walls have seen more of me than most people, from moments of joy and sadness, to times of uncertainty and moments of change. How lucky I have been, to have many walls protect me from the outside world.

As I prepare to move and sit on the floor using the lone stool as a desk in an almost empty, but also very much still full, home, I think about how this will be the fourth city I move to as an adult. It seems that I am shaping up to be a person who moves a lot.

I must ask: what is different about a person who wants to move, whether it be homes or cities, and someone who does not? When we remove circumstance and chance, I wonder if there is much difference left between the two people. Or whether there is something else, something fundamental. Like, maybe the one who stays knows that no matter where they go; there they will be, waiting for themselves. Maybe the person who leaves is too optimistic, searching for something that doesn’t exist. Perhaps it is exactly the opposite.

Gearing up for the move, I feel like I should be accustomed to the melancholy feeling of leaving, to the bittersweet feeling of saying good bye. Yet, as the moment approaches, I realize I do not feel prepared, that I have forgotten what it felt like and also that this time is different than the last. I struggle to comprehend how I look forward to settling down and when I am settled I feel bursts of energy to leave, to move, to wonder, what else could I do right now. I worry, if when the time comes, whether I will be able to stay in one physical place, without losing this energy to challenge myself. Will I be able to separate pushing myself to want more from the physical act of moving, knowing that one can exist without the other?

If you’ve moved recently, you may remember the logistics of it all, the mess of the days, the embarrassing realization of how much stuff you actually have, the panic in all the last minute tasks. I wonder if I sought out this chaos, or whether it found me. Considering that, I wanted this, I still do. I am so excited to live in a new city. The experience of packing everything up has been crazy and tiring, and alongside the disorganized days I find there is there is magic in the inconvenience of moving.

In both moving from, or moving to, there is calmness among the mess. Perhaps a feeling of a blank slate, starting anew. There is doubt in myself that follows; the stress of a newly acquired payment. There is something special about that first and last takeout meal eaten on the floor of a new place. It is a celebration, a mark of something new and something old, of a beginning and an end.

There is a realm of possibilities that seem to exist in a new place, the magic that is felt in that moment of aloneness (and the knowledge that we are not really alone; the home is there with us). Wondering about who lived here before: did they have the same questions as me? Did they sit here and feel nostalgic, like I am now? What did they fill the space with? I think also about who will live here next, what it will be like for them. I feel gratitude, that somehow, all these seemingly small things happened which led to the moment right now, me being here.

As I pack away physical items, I think of my memories here. I consider which memories I’ll easily forget and soon replace, which ones I’ll carry with me, and the ones I’ll search day and night for, years from now, not knowing what I did with them, doubting if they really existed.

I hear people talk of rose colored glasses as a negative thing, a lens that denies one an accurate perspective. Alternatively, these metaphorical glasses help me find renewed appreciation for all the small things, with the knowledge they will no longer be part of my day to day. I think it’s a blessing to be able to appreciate an experience more than usual, to let oneself see the positives and drown out the negatives, even if it is momentary.

I think of the day that I will leave the home. Leaving on trips, I feel anxiety, generally proportional to the length of the trip. The kind Lyft driver waits for me while I panic and go back a second time to make sure the back door is really locked and the oven is really off.

I think of this upcoming time leaving; the house will be empty. There will be no doorbell camera to keep an eye on things, my plush animal won’t be on the couch waiting for me to come home. The keys will be in the warm hands of a someone else, who will be looking to make their own memories in the place. It will be their turn to build a makeshift table to eat their choice of takeout, thinking about what this new chapter means for them. Another beginning, another end.

Sitting in an empty house inspires me. Spring time, in my opinion, is the most beautiful time in Austin. Sunshine flows through the windows, I hear the birds chirping outside, I see a cat climbing the tree. It was spring when I came, and it is spring when I leave.