Spent a good chunk of the day moving out of my old house. The experience was difficult. I didn’t realize that there would be a strong emotional component to the move. I didn’t realize I would be sad and I would feel like a part of my life was ending. I’ve moved five times in the seventeen odd years I’ve been in Arizona. I moved here with family and then bought my first home. Shortly after we were sucked into the vortex of McMansions and bought a home in a growing suburb. The crash hit and we got crushed. We wound up out of that home and rented another in the same suburb. That lasted a few years until we could buy again.
In a sense, each of my boys was born to a different home. The youngest was born to this home over a decade ago and now I am moving into what I expect will be my final space in this state. I’m not long from retirement and hopefully I will have amassed enough retirement to be able to leave here and do something really good like travel with my partner for the rest of our lives, using a central (small) home as a base as we explore what this beautiful planet has to offer.
This move was difficult because so much living and growing happened in that house. So much pain unfolded there. So much love unfolded there. I have many stories to tell about that house–so many that I don’t know that I will be able to drive by in the future and accept another family carving memories into those walls.
At the same time here I am at a new beginning and in a relationship with the woman I will spend my life with. This is a sort of crossroads. This is the end of one thing and a new beginning of another. I am excited for what this blended future can bring.