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.