Moving

Photo by Sigmund on Unsplash

“If we were meant to stay in one place, we would have roots instead of feet.” ― author Rachel Wolchin

Moving. Moving on. Moving through. On the move. I’m moving. Moving from my home of 22 years. I’ve been here a generation. It is time for me to move on and pass the house to another family for their new beginning.

It is a multi-storied home, three floors above the basement and a library of treasured memories, historical events, and changing communities.

The house is 116 years old. It was once a parsonage to the church across the street, a home to a state senator and her family, a landing place for a woman who was changing the direction of her life. The land beneath had once been a dairy farm. The bountiful garden has enjoyed the easy growth of its rich fertile base.

As I pack boxes of belongings, I unpack eras of memories. Each room has its own chapter. Take the front porch—an open room, no walls, only a ceiling held up by a few posts. Out here I sip my morning coffee, April through October. Birds serenade me with seasonal melodies ranging from spring’s migrating songbirds to crabby crows cawing into late fall. The crows are no doubt angry that they have to stay through the winter as robins ready themselves for warmer climes. V-formations of geese mark early spring and late fall. Herons glide from river to pond and back again throughout the summer.

As I enter the kitchen, I experience a kaleidoscope of memories. There are the aromas of favorite meals as well as burnt offerings from hurried suppers and neglected pots. I can still feel the mix of dust and sweat as we peeled back old linoleum to uncover the original maple flooring. There remains the burned-in scar left by the leg of an old heavy stove long before me. I see the counter cluttered with measuring cups, spilled flour, spices waiting to be returned to their alphabetical order. I can almost taste the sweetness of the resultant holiday cookies, ready to be shared with neighbors and friends. A vision of the sink full of grimy pots awaiting hot, sudsy water reminds me of the miracles that returned them to their former state.

SEE ALSO  Good Grief

I cannot be so easily returned to my former state, the younger me that moved into this home those many years ago. Nor would I wish to, though I do miss the energy and stamina she had. This was transitional housing. I left a marriage and restarted my life, a life that has grown and blossomed, like the gardens surrounding the house.

As I pack boxes of belongings, I unpack eras of memories.The dining room is so quiet, the lively conversations muted by time. Holiday meals stretched not only the table but the capacity of the room. Because it is contiguous with the living room, I could expand its boundaries to add another table or two to accommodate 20 for dinner. Noisy, messy, loud—it was great!

The living room is where I have morning coffee when it’s too cold to be on the porch, often warmed by a fire accompanying my conversations with God. This peace-filled room held circles of conversations around books, politics, spiritual dilemmas.  Sometimes neighborhood children waited for a parent after school. Games were tucked into the bookcase to be retrieved by a great nephew as we shared after-school time before his parent came to retrieve him. A yoga mat fitted nicely in the space adjoining the dining room during Covid. My piano sits quietly, both of us longing for the free time to once more play a sonatina.

The study, once a place dominated by paperwork, now holds my Zoom calls. Still, too much paper lingers. I will no doubt drag it forward. Not nearly enough time to sort through it now. Someday, someone else will decide what to keep and what to toss when I no longer can.

I climb the third set of stairs to the attic. Too much storage room is a hazard for those of us tempted to hold onto things beyond their useful life. There are boxes rarely opened in the 22 years that they have been here. Old scrapbooks and photo albums of my mother’s life, her five-year diaries dating back to a time before I was born. The loom I used decades ago. A few weavings remain, reminders of the 1970’s fascination with earth tone colors. Old files with death certificates, funeral notices, sympathy cards. Letters dating back to college. Hopes and dreams lost in the disappointments of the ordinary of life. Early art of now grown children. Lost loves. Slides with no slide projector. What to keep and what to toss?

SEE ALSO  Winter Blues: Finding Light During the Dark Days

Memories rise and fall like the quiet hills of southeastern Minnesota, the land that escaped the last flow of glaciers. Glaciers scoured much of our state making way for blooming prairies and chains of freshwater lakes nested with diverse wetlands. Me too. The clearing out will make way for an openness for grief to mingle with joy and memories to shine in the sun of love.

I am lightening the load. Letting go. Dropping the what ifs, the why nots, the how coulds. The memories linger, but in a softer form, the sorrows soothed, the griefs tempered, the present less burdensome. Moving into another way to be.


Mary Lou Logsdon is a Spiritual Director in the Twin Cities. She can be reached at logsdon.marylou@gmail.com.

Last Updated on July 15, 2023

One comment

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *