Moving

I moved 11 times from birth to age 18.  Since then I have relocated 7 times.  To date that brings my grand total to 25 different homes, neighborhoods and communities.  One thing I know how to do is start over.

Every two or three years I get the 'itch'.  No, it's not a rash, it's the itch to shake things up.  As a single person or as a married couple that meant adventure and seeking our fortunes in the big city.  Now, as a mother, it has an entirely different meaning.

Recently my husband and I decided it was time we worked for ourselves and made the big move to full time consulting.   It's terrifying to come out from under the safety and security of a 'real job'.  It is also exhilarating to escape the confines of previously painful employment experiences. 

Finally, after three months, the consulting opportunities have begun to emerge.  Currently, there are two.  One is for a previous client and works to support meaningful high school reform in Philadelphia.  The other is to become a full time political consultant for projects which would span the entire country.   Both are a move up in influence, responsibility and pay.  Both are important and exciting.  Both would require a relocation closer to civilization (i.e. airports, Trader Joe's, etc.)

I decided years ago that I wanted my children to grow up on the same block, with the same kids as we lived in the same house.  I wanted to have the closet door on which there were lines denoting their growth.  I wanted to look at the cement steps and see little hand prints or footprints.  I wanted the exact opposite of my own childhood for my own children.

Not that being an Army brat was terrible.  It afforded me opportunities and experiences most people only read about.  It made me strong and resilient.  It made me appreciate being an American to the depths of my heart.  It also made me slow to trust and ready to leave at a moment's notice.  It also made me feel like an orphan with no real identity.

So here I sit, in my father's dining room, on the precipice of determining whether my own boys will have the closet door with the lines, or a suitcase.  I am stuck, knowing either decision will ripple through all our lives for good or for not so good.  I am still, hoping to hear a whisper of God's wisdom in my heart.  I am waiting, breathless for the 'sign' to point the way.  Here I blog, un-moving.