Here's the thing: if I'm going to do something it needs to be now. I don't want to wake up and find myself 65 years old and still waiting for the next adventure to begin. "Eventually."
I come from a line of nomadic people, though you wouldn't know it to look at them. They don't keep camels or anything, I mean, or live in stick huts. Anymore. But they were globetrotters. I don't think that I realised until I was nearing adulthood that some people actually stayed in the same country, or even state, as their extended family. Forever.
Six years is the longest I've ever spent in one house, and now I find myself coming up on a six year mark once again and feeling suffocated. I love it here. I love the friends I've made. I love the things we do. I love the beauty of Michigan. I love my life. But to be honest, I'm itching to go again. I have wanderlust. I don't know if I'll ever be able to settle in one place "for the rest of my life." It just sounds so. . . final.
There's a chance we could go to Germany for 12-18 mos, which would be terrific, but it wouldn't be for a year or so yet. And if that falls through, my feet are still yearning for new soil -- another continent.
In the macrocosm of my life, I'm preparing for big changes, while in the microcosm, I keep on keeping on as it were -- making soap and selling it at the co-op, doing rewrites on the novel that I finally finished(!!), taking and teaching Tae Kwon Do classes, and homeschooling the kids. I plan my garden and hope there's no point this time. I pare down our books to what I would only be willing to cart across the ocean, and still find new ones to buy. I get passport applications and maps of the UK and Germany, and I think of painting the kids' rooms. It makes my head spin, to be honest. I feel like I'm straining against a giant rubber band, drawn back after each lunge, but still aching to cut myself free.