I've moved a lot since leaving the house I grew up in and every time I switch addresses I rediscover the same thing about how I am. When it's time to move I am a master at finding things to do that involve everything EXCEPT moving. It's a weakness, I tell you.
I sure am going to miss this place. I moved here three and a half years ago after a couple of years of volatile roommate situations. I was also living a very unhealthy lifestyle. This house has become a refuge for me, the place where I feel most at peace. I've laughed and cried harder, and more, here than in any other place other than, perhaps, the house I grew up in.
And this room is my favorite. This is where I learned the healing power of writing. This is where I've sat with friends and shared beer and coffee and more stories than I could possibly count. This is where some of the people I love the most gathered around me and let me be fully in the moment during the darkest moments of my life.
My article on the UBC building elicited a couple of critical responses, implying that I was wrong, that place doesn't matter. For the first time in my life I read the criticism and it did not elicit anger. I actually grieved for the people that they can't (or won't) understand. I wish they could have spent some time with my people in this room, sharing stories and living life. But they'll never have that opportunity and I sincerely feel it is their loss.
I'll move to a different place and before you know it I'll be moving to another. I can only pray the walls are ready.