Portable

Moving kicks butt. I’ve done many kinds of moving. I started grand and gradually narrowed the imprudence of my ambitions. For my first move, I left my city, country and continent for a new set. All armed with two suitcases and a recklessness that in retrospect gives me the shivers. I half-knew a few people, I did not trust anyone. I was alone, more so in my head than in reality. Two years later, I decided (or rather was compelled to) to switch cities, leaving the calmer streets of Twin Cities for the bustle of Chicago. This time two suitcases would not be enough. Instead I had Amtrak ship six boxes for me, which arrived in the heart of downtown, in an underground city that I didn’t know existed. I cursed myself for those six boxes, as I tried to find someone who could drive me and the boxes for a price I could afford to what was to be a temporary home.

Driving down into the dark belly of the city, being sniffed by police dogs, moving boxes without a dolly and ending a hot day surrounded by a six boxes and a slight sense of despair is the opposite of chicken soup for the soul.. Living with two people who obsessed about not cooking to keep the kitchen clean and myriad ways to clean bathrooms, felt like a new kind of prison that I could not wait to escape (I once had to blow dry myself to be warm when I was sick, in the middle of September). I moved again, to another house, this time to a warmer welcome. I have been moving so often, I feel like I am in constant motion. You would too perhaps, especially if your moves involved houses more than homes.

I am starting to tire of the bits and ends I have gathered along the way. In my original suitcases I bought blurry pictures of family, Tibetan prayer flags, a picture of a god who I do not believe in but given by a mother I do believe in. I packed gifts friends gave me: a beautifully carved bookmark, my favorite quotes on tiny sheets, a factory of memories in trinkets. Over my two years I grew inordinately attached to a colorful afghan/rug (I could never quite figure it out) that I found at a Goodwill (pro-tip: go to the rich people suburbian Goodwill). I strung up a gigantic orange kite I brought back from Vietnam on one wall. I took apart a photo album to build another wall.

Each move takes something from me. I believe it is the sort of deal where the upfront investment and cost is high and the returns incremental in the beginning. Settling takes time. None of my moves involve a clean cut. I have phone bills in Delhi and forwarding addresses in Minneapolis. I now must do taxes in two countries and three states. Healthcare can hardly keep up with my moves and it took me two years to be stable enough to get a credit card. I still don’t have a credit score, not being in debt is not good for that sort of thing. I am learning to stop keeping score.

Some of us move to keep things together, to find homes.

Keeping Things Whole by Mark Strand

In a field

I am the absence

of field.

This is

always the case.

Wherever I am

I am what is missing.

When I walk

I part the air

and always

the air moves in

to fill the spaces

where my body’s been.

We all have reasons

for moving.

I move

to keep things whole.