At the beginning of lockdown, I started finally ‘bedding in’ to my flat. I started putting things on the wall, and growing plants in the garden. I started assuming I would be here for a while, and acting accordingly.
I’ve rarely lived in a place for longer than a year. Often shorter. I have a habit of not ‘fully unpacking’, whether that be physically or just mentally. But, with a two year old and no reason to go anywhere – no better prospects – I figured it’d be nice to fully exhale into the space I found myself in.
Now, it looks like it’s time to move on. Which is kind of a pain. But also exciting. I was exhausted by the idea of moving again a few months ago but, as I scan through property listings now, I feel that familiar sense of new possibility piquing my interest.
So this wasn’t the plan. But my restless heart won’t mind.
I’d always instinctly felt that my relentless movement was a symptom of my restlessness. But I do wonder, now, whether my restlessness was in fact an adaptation to necessity. Because I didn’t want to move, but, now that I need to, I want to.