On moving and being moved

It appears that Maggie Bieritz has changed her residence.

Over the weekend, all of my stuff - the cat, the clothes, the crazy - moved into my sister's house in Aurora. I suppose I should stop calling it "my sister's house" and just call it "home" now, because ... well, regardless of ownership, it's now my home, too. I will spend a few years saving money, and at the end of that time, Lord willing, I will find and purchase the perfect condo.

In the meanwhile, Pat and I will be sharing a blog. I'll link you to it once we get rolling. But between now and then, I feel the need to muse.

I know what it means to move "stuff". I've boxed it all up enough and sent it to wherever my next place of residency might be. I've gotten somewhat used to this (although I lived in my last place for six years; that was a long stint in one location!) I know what it means to move, physically. This is a relatively new phenomenon, having only just been taking care of my body for the past four years or so. In that time, I've become a runner and a swimmer and an athlete. (Yes, it still feels weird to say that.)

And I sure know what it means to be moved, but it's harder to wrap my mind around, or explain it to anyone. I was talking with my nephew yesterday, and he was feeling mighty superior about himself and his experiences as we were talking as a family about our experiences at church camp. "I bet my camp beats yours," he said ... and I was a bit taken aback.

Perhaps the camp we went to didn't have archery, or trampolines, or zip lines. No, camp back then was about being together as a family (unless you were my sisters who actually went to camp with strangers). It was about walking over the swinging bridge to the pool, climbing the stairs on Vesper Hill, finding raspberries growing behind a friend's campsite, and wading in the creek. Camp for me was a simple time, a time when all you needed was a fire, a folding chair and a dog beside you ... and everything was perfect.

In those moments, you couldn't help but be moved. Sometimes I think when we take away all the things that stimulate us - our activities and our electronics, and even our friends - is the best time to truly be moved. And it's important, sometimes, to let that happen. It's vital, even, to allow yourself to go to that place where you can feel the breeze on your face, hear the crickets chirping, and know that the world is huge, but that you matter.

I have gotten better at moving my stuff. I revel in moving my body. But when I am truly moved, I am absolutely at my best.

Moving - on, forward, out, etc.

The Big Move is in two days. On Saturday, I load up the truck (and by "I", I mean "guys I am paying to move my shit") and point it toward my sister's house in Aurora. Her home will be mine, too, for about two years, while I save to buy my own Perfect Place.

Heavy is my heart. I love my town (are you tired of hearing about that already?) and I am so completely in love with the life I have built for myself here. But here's the real shocker:

I am completely, utterly in love with the person I have become here. I am, now more than ever, completely, utterly Maggie. I got to know who I am here. I acknowledged the parts I didn't like, and then ...

I changed them.

Here, I became an athlete. I am a runner, a swimmer and a cyclist. I am a triathlete, and a half-marathoner. (And I'm only half crazy!)

Here, I became a divorcee. He left because I had changed. I'm pretty sure he wouldn't recognize me today, and that's fine by me. Maggie 2.0 would likely have nothing to do with him, anyway. Suck it.

Here, I became a better friend. My world expanded, and I grew a sort of misfit family. We became a place in which not fitting in makes you fit in. I love that.

Here, I became a cook. Dabbling in the kitchen, I created odd things like curried popcorn and peanut chicken soup, and perfect things like grilled cheese direct from heaven (I am so not lying about that) and green tea ice cream. I flexed my kitchen muscles here.

And here, I became strong enough to take this life, and put it somewhere else. During a recent freak-out, my friend Eric put it this way: 

"The life you have built out of nothing is still your life. Think of it like transplanting a plant. It can't grow any more in the flower pot - so you move it to the garden. And I know you, Margaret. You will find your little spot anywhere. You will find your little stores and coffee shops and park benches. You will find the magic wherever you go. The hidden treasures. You will find the things that are your little secret to share with people you care about. There are very few people at good at life as I think you are."

I never thought of me in that way - being "good at life" - but I think he's right. I know he's right. The next chapter will be interesting. It will be bumpy. It will be fun and stupid and ridiculous, but it will be well-lived, too. 

So now, as my friend Janie puts it, it's time to leap and trust that the net will appear.

I need ...

• To figure out why I have gastrointestinal distress every afternoon.
• A good eyebrow waxing.
• To write my own manifesto. 
• Not to mention stay motivated to finish the book. (Spoiler alert: it's good.)
• A staff of five to come help me finish packing. (Thankfully my girlfriends are totally stepping up to that plate.)
• For a certain person I know to stop being a complete douchecanoe. 
• An airline ticket to Minneapolis. 
• And one to Portland.
• And San Diego.
• And while I'm at it ... Istanbul. Not, however, Constantinople.
• A glass of wine.
• This lamp. And this paddle game.
• My calf to stop hurting.
• My mommy. Yes, sometimes I do. Shut up.
• Coffee.
• Someone to make me dinner.
• Fresh air. 
• To run.
• For you to smile.
• To remember to be grateful.

Going home

I've been a bit lax with the updates of late, and you're just gonna have to forgive me. My life is a busy place right now, and well ... something's gotta give.

At any rate, a few weeks back I took a road trip to a place that's home, even though technically it's not my home. I went to Jacksonville, IL to the home of my best friend/brother Mike, for my faux-bro Chunk's wedding.

Oddly, I spent three days with these people and took nary a photo of the happy couple. I do, however, have a lot of photos of other people. People like ...

Racheal and Mike ... the best friends a girl could ask for. 

Izzy, Alice and Kaylee ... flower girls extraordinaire.

Mike and me .. our horns are showing.

It was a fantastic weekend. Sometimes it's good to go home and be with people who love you beyond reason or rational thought. It's impossible to return home after spending time with the people I choose as family and not feel fortunate, for so many reasons. For my entire life, I have (with rare exception) surrounded myself with people who have had my back, who swoop in to rescue me when I'm in need of rescuin' and who bring out the very best in me. There's usually laughter, and a few tears when it's time to part ways I'm lucky, and I know it. But the truth of the matter is, anyone can cultivate relationships like these. You just have start with great people, add a little love and understanding, stir and let it happen.