Why I Love Moving Houses

Everyone hates moving house, right? I don't. I love moving to a new home.

Growing up, my family moved a lot. I'm sure my parents worried that we kids wouldn't adapt well. While I can't speak for my siblings, my memories of leaving one area to start over in another are mostly good.

Like everyone, I hate the work involved in moving. Who enjoys lifting couches and smashing fingers in the door frame? But I still love to move; for me it is the definition of a 'clean slate.'

I hear many people bemoan the inevitable loss of possessions inherent in moving. For me, it is a distillation of myself. While moving for some allows them to recreate themselves, for me it is more that moving forces me to define myself. What I take with me, in a manner of speaking, is who I am. I spend months sorting cupboards and drawers, discarding magazines I've kept but don't need, re-distributing second-hand paperbacks I've already read twice. By the time moving day arrives, I can look at the items left and know that they are the definition of me.

I don't want to be defined as someone who can't let go of back issues of Woman's Day and Reader's Digest. One woman I helped to move insisted that we take broken crockery, 12 long-forgotten hairbrushes, and two gigantic bags of potting soil. I couldn't help but wonder if those things were the essence of who she is?
While I'm lax about clothes sorting in every other circumstance, during he run-up to moving, I rid myself of bras that lost their stretch, socks which lost their partner, and shoes that have lost either their soles, or soul. Out go unused and aged herbs and spices, twist-ties from the bottom of a drawer, and empty jelly jars I thought I might use some day. I will not be someone who forces a soon-to-be former friend to shift heavy boxes full of unused and useless odds and ends. Nor will I reach my new home only to open a box and wonder why I brought it with me. I celebrate each move as a rebirth of me, without the baggage.

One of my summer college jobs was spent as a packer for a moving company. There are essentially two kinds of people who are moved by professional companies: military families and wealthy people. What I learned that summer about people and their possessions only served to solidify my resolve. Typically, the military families were essentially relaxed and friendly. The wealthier people would hover over my shoulder, not just when I was packing their valuable pieces, but also as I loaded their pillows and towels, which I couldn't possibly ruin. They were so high-strung I wondered that they were able to inhale. I never wanted to be a person who would shed a tear over any physical possession.

The things I'd cry over can't be packed in boxes and most of the time don't accompany me on a move. My relationships can't be packed in boxes and shipped to a new place. Perhaps someday as my aging mind can't hold these people anymore, I'll wish I'd kept some birthday cards or hand me downs. I doubt it, as if my mind is that far gone, it would take more than a physical reminder to remember my loved ones. Time will tell - until then, I'm keeping on the move.