How was it possible that Marilyn Monroe was satiated for seven years before being incited by that infamous itch? As an adult, two years is the longest I’ve managed to find myself without the nagging need for something new.
It’s been a few months since I’ve posted and, although, it strikes some odd that I turned from writing in these stressful, move-consumed weeks, I found that it coincided nicely with an impassable writer’s block.
After a surprise visit to my hometown in July, I returned to my small Midwest town and found myself distanced from the feelings of quaint easiness that I thought had drawn me there. As it turns out, those feelings and the comfort in simplicity that I had always associated with my time in Wisconsin was, in fact, not confined to the mitten-shaped border of my beloved Badger-land. It was actually, country song cliché be damned, a state of mind that I had grown into.
For the first time in my thirty years, I started considering a move by choice, rather than out of necessity. I did have the two-year restlessness, but in the past my moves have been precipitated by a better job, a shorter commute, cheaper rent. In a matter of weeks, I broke the news, started filling boxes, and relocated my job hunt to the North Oregon Coast.
I’ve always maintained that if I ever moved back to the Pacific Northwest, I would only ever call Astoria home. I spent many spring breaks just 20 miles beyond the cove-d hamlet, but was forever drawn to the jarring colors of the crumbling Victorians and the deep history that could be felt seeping from their weathered siding.
So it happened. I did it. And here I am.
Many applications, a few interviews, but no job yet.
A cozy (double meaning intended: securely comfortable and small in real estate lingo) apartment with a view only possible in one place in the world.
And the knowledge that although it appears that I’m starting over yet again, in reality this life has always been here.
Sitting on the dock, in the rain, waiting for me to call it home.