For most of my growing up years, I lived in the same small town, restricted by expectations and past experiences. When I married, I first escaped to London, UK for a year and a bit and then our multiply moving military madness started. We moved so often I got to be a pro at it, grew to hate having to clean the same bathrooms for more than three years, adored getting to know new towns and views from my windows and places to walk and different paths home.

When my marriage ended, I found the exploring part of my nature didn’t. I love to change my scene regularly, though I think my kids think I am barking mad when I do. Recently I ran away TO home, to Nova Scotia, a place that claimed my heart over 15 years ago. We’d moved here and there and all over in the inbetween times, but I knew this was where I wanted to be.

Now I’ve been here for two years, in an apartment with a lovely superintendent couple and great neighbours, but I feel the need to move again. Why? It’s quiet, too quiet. I look out on suburban monster houses and I’ve explored as far as I can walk all around here. I cannot easily walk for a paper or a coffee.  When visitors come, I have to give up my bedroom. I can’t see the sky. I’ve cleaned the bathrooms the requisite number of times for me to feel restless. I’m so completely self-contained in this place I never have to speak to anyone if I don’t want to. That’s not good for me.

So move I will, though it seems hardly wise. This time I’m going where I can see the sea and the lakes and the sky out of my windows. I’m up high, so I can satisfy my catlike self. I can watch ships coming in and out, see thunderstorms and fall leaves and fireworks and boat races.

Primarily it’s because I like a different view. My kids think it’s because I am never happy, never content, and my response is, I am happy. That doesn’t mean I have to stay static. I strive in every other part of my life, to be more fit, to be more knowledgeable, to do more interesting things. Why wouldn’t moving enter into that?

Of course, packing is a pain, but it’s also purging. It gives me an excuse to empty out stuff, clear the decks, look for things I don’t need to toss. It refreshes me but when you are living in a place for awhile, I tend to let rubber bands accumulate in the corners of drawers and crumbs in my cutlery tray, papers here and there. Moving forces me to take account, take charge. It’s lovely.

So I may appear mad, unsettled, unhappy, strange, compared to the stability of living in one place for years. Realistically, I had that time. Now I can move when I want, and so I will. And with the move, the new vista, new friends to meet, new places to explore.