Moving: the dislocation of objects, people and self

so I am suddenly at the Union County fair in rural PA, which I believe must be more po-dinkish than I ever remember Wayne County, Ohio being, although this is subject to hot debate with my wife, and I am witnessing an altogether strange gene pool at work before my eyes. these people appear to me as though their heads and bodies and limbs do not go together – but were mysteriously switched in some huge dark closet last night – yet everyone else seems to be at ease with their appearances.

there is very little here in rural PA which might reassure my tensions, that would calm my desperation resulting from nothing of surety on which to stand or depend. everything is in flux: jobs, post offices, grocery stores, schools, banks, churches, family, friends, houses. even my own family is in flux as we adjust to a newborn. we need to find a new car, new insurance, new licenses, new everything. suddenly every aspect of my life needs to be switched over, restarted, begun from scratch.

the jolt of moving is huge, can only be felt over a span of days, months. there are so many little habitual routines, intuitive movements and thoughts, well-worn paths associated with existing in a particular place – to have these all gone in a day, erased by the hammering pistons of the rental truck that carries all of us and all of our things away, away.

we’ve been in this one-half house in Lewisburg now for about a month. we only started hanging things up on the wall yesterday. it is tricky and tiresome to constantly prioritize the various tasks and stages of setting up living space. how long can I put up with this room in complete chaos? walking around these boxes? sleeping without blinds in those windows? my mind wants a rest from a high level of entropy, we’ve been struggling against it ever since we left Akron two and one half months ago. it is easy to think of the time when everything will be in its place in the house as some mythological arrival, a place of peace and tranquility. but if that ever happens, we will undoubtedly be disappointed that the surrounding environment of chaos has merely been an easy thing on which to project our internal dislocation.

last night when we walked in the door, Olivia remarked that she got a little bit of “home” feeling. there was a warmth in the air reminiscent of fresh applesauce and Ranger cookies. what is that feeling of home but a summation of memories and acquaintances and relationships with a space? getting to know the way light comes through the windows, at what frequency the washer vibrates on the rinse cycle, the water pressure of the faucets, how fast the fridge door closes, what sounds the attic makes in a strong wind, how fast the burners on the stove heat up, how many steps up and down the stairway, where the light switches are, where the coldest and warmest parts of the house are and so many other things.

when everything else in my life is dislocated, my wife's hand feels especially familiar when I'm lying in bed listening to strange night noises and watching strange street light come through strange curtains. despite our dislocation, Olivia's laughter sounds the same melodic line, our arguments resound with similar timbre. Maggie wakes up at night in regular rhythm, with the same goofy grin. Lyric’s energy is just as stimulating and grating as it always has been. The fiery life behind her eyes when she teases me seems as if it could never go out, even if we moved to the bottom of the ocean.

living a “transient lifestyle” of moving six times in seven years motivates me to be diligently spontaneous about interacting with my little family. these are the people with whom I will create the feeling of home and shared memory. they are my home.

photo by Lyric