Voluntary Migration
There was a tiny fit-in-the-palm-of-your-hand frog in my back garden tonight and I thought for a moment about scooping it up and bringing it down to the lake, which is just at the front of the building. My thinking, of course, that from the back garden to the lake is an awful long journey for such a little frog.
Then I thought: the frog probably knows better than I do what the heck it needs or how far it needs to travel so I let him sit (only after poking him to make sure he was alive and not in need of proper burial).
About the same distance from the back garden to the lake in the opposite direction is a house that just sold faster than a flying potato. The older couple who sold it have lived there as long as I've been alive. Worked there, too, both of them on the second floor studio. I only know them in a front-porch-to-front-walk kind of way. He looks like a ship's captain with a big white beard, and he would sit on the front porch reading the paper. Once, I think he tipped his head at me and Huey as we passed. She didn't emerge until recently as they packed and moved and had an estate sale. She was out with the movers today.
They're moving to the East Coast, a long-held dream (or so the rumors go). They're going to live out their years 1,000 miles away from what has been their only home in as many years as I've had 19 homes.
Sometimes I wish for permanency. Most of the time I wish for change. Most of the time 1,000 miles in any direction sounds like it might be nice. My family is migratory by each generation; none of the last five generations on either side have lived in the same city as the previous generation. That might explain my itch to leave Minneapolis. But I keep coming back to what my friend Max told me one night in London years ago as I debated the push and pull of trying to find home: "after awhile, everywhere is just somewhere, isn't it?"
Sometimes when I travel I'm overwhelmed with the possibilities of life. Of what streets and places you can come to know and can become part of your story. It feels like so many choices. But Max is right, I know. A change in scenery doesn't always change the things you'd like it to.
Which brings me back to the frog: I had a moment of panic while writing that I really, really should have scooped up the frog and brought him to the lake. (He needs water! He needs help across the street!) I went out back and found he had gone.
How brave! I thought to myself. And then I thought of myself: how silly. And I'm not at all sure which I would apply to the older couple.
Then I thought: the frog probably knows better than I do what the heck it needs or how far it needs to travel so I let him sit (only after poking him to make sure he was alive and not in need of proper burial).
About the same distance from the back garden to the lake in the opposite direction is a house that just sold faster than a flying potato. The older couple who sold it have lived there as long as I've been alive. Worked there, too, both of them on the second floor studio. I only know them in a front-porch-to-front-walk kind of way. He looks like a ship's captain with a big white beard, and he would sit on the front porch reading the paper. Once, I think he tipped his head at me and Huey as we passed. She didn't emerge until recently as they packed and moved and had an estate sale. She was out with the movers today.
They're moving to the East Coast, a long-held dream (or so the rumors go). They're going to live out their years 1,000 miles away from what has been their only home in as many years as I've had 19 homes.
Sometimes I wish for permanency. Most of the time I wish for change. Most of the time 1,000 miles in any direction sounds like it might be nice. My family is migratory by each generation; none of the last five generations on either side have lived in the same city as the previous generation. That might explain my itch to leave Minneapolis. But I keep coming back to what my friend Max told me one night in London years ago as I debated the push and pull of trying to find home: "after awhile, everywhere is just somewhere, isn't it?"
Sometimes when I travel I'm overwhelmed with the possibilities of life. Of what streets and places you can come to know and can become part of your story. It feels like so many choices. But Max is right, I know. A change in scenery doesn't always change the things you'd like it to.
Which brings me back to the frog: I had a moment of panic while writing that I really, really should have scooped up the frog and brought him to the lake. (He needs water! He needs help across the street!) I went out back and found he had gone.
How brave! I thought to myself. And then I thought of myself: how silly. And I'm not at all sure which I would apply to the older couple.
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