Moving Adventures

And other semi-related experiences

Shedding Roots, 12” x 12” acrylic by Michelle Lindblom

For the last six months of this year, I have been experiencing a curious kind of levitation. I intuitively knew that changes were on the horizon, but not precisely what or when they might happen. It has been and continues to be exhilarating, unnerving, and uncomfortable.

I talk a good game about how it’s good to feel out of sorts or awkward occasionally, but I wouldn’t say I like that feeling when deep in it. Because, at my core, I’m a planner. My mind is constantly going over the logistics of any situation I encounter. This is the pragmatic side of my character: my Midwest upbringing and Norwegian/German ancestry.

This current state of levitation involves a significant house/studio move. Moving within a city or across the country has always consumed all my mental and physical bandwidth, which stems from my need to tackle the process in a practical and organized manner.

I like being sensible when it serves a valid, responsible purpose and doesn’t hinder my creativity or freedom from mundane constraints. I also don’t mind that moving requires problem-solving skills and tetras-like manipulation, which challenges my mind and body.

One weird and somewhat off-topic example of my obsessive practical nature is my reaction to the PAST DUE status on a bill, which can send me down a spiral of irrational thoughts. It’s as if I have committed a crime, resulting in a fear-based reaction that sends me into all kinds of rabbit holes. I’m sure there were instances in my youth where I was judged for not having enough money because, in fact, I did not. And as an insecure young woman, these issues still surface occasionally.

I now put everything on an automatic payment system except for my Target card (for unknown reasons). Consequently, I have been late paying that bill a few times because life gets in the way, and due dates escape my purview. Those past-due email notices seem to trigger my hot flashes every time. Strange.

My prudence also comes into play when spending money, especially when few funds were left over each month as a 20-something living independently. Being frugal reveals itself both in my conscious and subconscious actions. My mother worked retail when I was growing up and always touted how much things were marked up beyond their actual cost. With four kids, money was tight, and name brands were out of reach unless they were on sale. She taught us to spot good quality but never to pay full price.

Growing up on a farm, Dad was also frugal because he had no choice. I don’t believe he ever bought a new car. And if I remember correctly, most of our used vehicles were reasonably reliable. However, as a teenager, car trouble was not my concern unless it involved the vehicle I was currently driving.

This brings me to the used car Dad bought me in 1976 for $400. It was the summer before my senior year and I needed my own vehicle because the family was moving to Minnesota while I stayed to finish high school in North Dakota. The car was a blue Chevette, which I sarcastically referred to as the “Shove it.” I added oil almost as often as I needed to get gas. In addition, as I was driving to school (or work) one day, I heard a loud clunk and scraping noise. The car puttered sickly to a stop. The carburetor had fallen out on a major roadway, but I don’t remember exactly what part disengaged from the undercarriage. What I do remember is feeling intensely embarrassed that my clunker car failed to get me where I needed to go, with people staring at me while I stood helpless on the side of the road.

Since my parents lived in Minnesota, I had to call my uncle to retrieve me and have the vehicle towed. Thus, my dad’s luck with used cars ended.

Despite my practical upbringing, I pursued an impractical path by becoming a student of art. It was not entirely planned, but it is where my heart and soul eventually gravitated.

I bring this up because being an artist has played a crucial role in where I live and what kind of home I have chosen. Even my early apartments required wall space for art and a kitchen/dining area big enough for an artist's table or easel.

When my spouse and I could afford a house, one of the main requirements was a space to set up a studio and wall space for art of all sizes. We have found unique homes that checked off most of our boxes or we made changes so they would. These home searches invariably taxed my mindset because most houses did not have specific spaces for art. Some rooms could be converted, but rarely were there specific rooms that fit a studio description.

So often, I would have to manipulate spaces, which became a puzzle to solve. A task I found exhilarating and equally demanding.

This current move involved looking at more homes than I care to reveal. But because of where I am in my life, the realistic me receded into the background and only revealed itself when other parts of a house’s characteristics came up, like single-level living, the color of the siding, a new roof, an efficient heating source, etc.

What does any of this have to do with the unknown realm I have been hovering in these past months? Well, the practicality of moving involves money and physical and mental gymnastics. How much bandwidth do I have to maneuver through the unknowns of where to move, what house to buy, when to sell our current residence, what to keep, what to get rid of, missed opportunities in my current location, missing friends, and meeting new people? Not to mention uprooting my established studio and what all that entails.

I admit to being restless for new experiences outside of the familiarity of where I have been for the past ten years. That unsettled sense re-entered my being when I began traveling again after the Pandemic. My sense of adventure crept in unconsciously at first, and I wasn’t necessarily feeling the need to move.

Then, my spouse began contemplating retirement and relocating. That sense of adventure I harbored rose to the surface again. I imagined myself in other places, which took up space in my monkey brain. We’ve been taking road trips to various western states outside Central Oregon, our home for ten years. The Northwest is where we’ve always pointed our compass as far back as when my spouse vied for a residency in the Seattle area in 1984-85.

This relocating process has lasted almost two years, so you can see how and why living in a limbo-like space has become pervasive and unsettling at various points.

As we returned from a trip to the Midwest to see family this summer, I suggested we swing through Washington State before heading back to Oregon. We contacted our realtor and lined up some showings within the Olympic Penisula area. Once again, nothing we saw triggered us to make an offer. The day before we returned to Bend, OR, a property came up in Sequim, WA; the rest is history.

A wave of relief came over me. One part of the puzzle was complete.

Although my spouse and I have many differences, we have agreed on where we would like to live at this stage of the game, although our reasons may differ. Our new home feels grounded, as if we have finally landed after circling the area for a while. However, as with any move to an unknown place, there is still a sense of limbo. To me, that is the beauty of the adventure. More on that later.

Michelle Lindblom