I was going to start this post with some insightful comments on the connection between movement and living; you can’t have one without the other. But I’m sitting in the back seat of my sister’s Jetta, flying down the highway, and n. So instead, I will jump right into talking about moving. When I was a kid, my dad was in the military. We moved to Germany shortly before I turned 5, and to New Mexico just after I turned 8, then El Paso, then back to New Mexico. After 21 years in the desert, we moved to North Carolina.

I fought it. I wanted to be somewhere new, but I definitely didn’t want to live in North Carolina. I decided to escape to Australia for as long as possible. Three and a half months later, I returned to the US for my sister’s wedding, and to stay. A month after, we started taking pandemic precautions. I still hate North Carolina. I hate the humidity, the abundance of foliage, and the barbecue – this Eastern style vinegar-based stuff is not at all my thing. But it doesn’t so much matter where I am right now, since I am avoiding going out socially until an appropriate COVID-19 prophylactic is available. So regrettably, my vehicle is now registered here; I don’t want to remove the New Mexico plate.

Maybe I should move back to the desert. Northern New Mexico is beautiful, I desperately miss the chile, and Albuquerque is a decent size. I feel a bit sheepish; my mom always wanted us to develop roots somewhere, and I always scoffed at the idea that was even possible. As a result of early opportunities, it was difficult to fathom living in a single place and liking it. It is still somewhat foreign, but I have a deeper appreciation for that kind of sentiment.