43.

Moving

My friend Anna has talked about how she feels the need to travel on a bodily level. When she stays too long in one place she can feel the next place pulling her—and, from what she has said, it seems like she can feel it in her skin.

In the last year, two of my friends announced that they have moved into the house where they will spend the rest of their lives, one in California, the other in Alaska. In each case, they played a role in the construction of the home, pouring themselves into the fiber and foundation of the place in a way that they tell me feels permanent. There is a part of me that likes the idea of a home that holds that much of me, but mostly I feel deeply unsettled by the thought of such stability.

I’m caught somewhere in between, a place that demands a blend of movement and home. It’s like the snails. For twenty-six years I believed, strongly, that snails shed their shells. I was convinced that they had a system of shedding and replacing that kept them outfitted in the right size and shape of shell. For decades, I imagined snails moving easily up hills, down sidewalks, across yards, always motivated by the hope of a better place—a home perfectly fitted to their bodies. It was a theory I developed when I was kid and saw all those empty snail shells in the ivy at Nanny and Uncle Tommy’s house. It made sense then and it makes sense now.

I’m not sure when I’m going to get to stop moving and I don’t know that I want to, but I do know that I need to keep home close to my body as I go.