We are packing. Moving. One more time handling the accoutrements excessive with accumulated tissue paper and care.

This is a process I’ve been through more times than I can count, the motion of location. When I turned 30, I caught up to the number of houses I’d lived in over the span of my life. At thirty six, I’m catching up again. The equilibrium of space and time.

I like being a nomad. I’m tired of trying to be anything else.

Wayward is my direction, so into that I will lean.

Human beings are a funny breed. We build structures of assumed permanence, fill them with weight, roll beneath turmoil when the foundation cracks. Mourn the loss of our comfortable distance from the natural evolution of things.

By nature, we are all nomadic.

A calling which we often forget.

The discomfort you feel, the innate sense of longing, restless…it’s your natural inclination to move. To step into the uncertain. To enjoy the quiet tide of pushing against the walls of disbelief.

Watch for birds. They are relentless in their survival stride. Do they cling to trees for dear life? Or respect the abundance of what they have to give? Sticks. Protection. Shelter from the storm. What is it that their eyes seek? The value in birds is that they are immersed in today, take care of today, work for today.

A lesson I take to heart right now.

We are in transition again. Moving to a slightly more permanent hold in our migration pattern, a simplistic version of the human nest that we are excited and eager to meet..

This is how we molt.