
This is how it started. Allegedly, in October 1949, I was born in Clapham, London UK. My first memory was crawling across a carpeted floor towards an armchair containing my father. My mother assured me that was at our flat in Paddington. The next home I remember is a cottage in Broadstairs, Kent, across the road from a vicarage. Me and my brother on our side, two or maybe three sisters on the other. Vicar’s daughters!
At some point, while I was three or four years old, we moved back to London, South Kensington. In 1955 we got on a boat at Southhampton and moved to Gordon’s Bay, near Cape Town, South Africa. That’s 5 homes in 5 years.
18 months later we moved to Johannesburg, to a cottage in the grounds of a big hotel in Orange Grove. From there we moved to a rented house in Bryanston. Within 2 years my parents managed to buy a house in Inanda. 4 years later they had to sell and we moved to a rented cottage in Rivonia. Lastly we moved to an apartment in Rosebank. All these are various suburbs of Johannesburg.
In April 1962, we went to Cape Town by train and got on a boat back to England. We moved into a cottage outside Newbury in Berkshire. That’s 11 homes in 12 years.
I could go on. I’ve saved you the torture by doing the math. Besides overstaying my welcome at dear indulgent friends’ homes, including the London apartment I’ve just moved into, I have had a further 54 addresses; these in France, Germany, Spain, New York, Italy, Denmark and England. That’s 65 homes in 72 years.
To confound the numbers still further, I stayed in the home I just left for 14 years! Which is why I am especially happy to be moving again. I love my new place, and already feel at home here, but its not any nesting instinct in me, but rather a wanderlust I was born into that is resurfacing in me. As I simultaneously unpack and shed belongings, I see this as a well situated base for excursions of all kinds, while the travelling is still to be had.
Friends have recently been nodding wisely and saying how awful moving is. From my perspective the more you do it, the less awful it is. The move I’ve just completed is more like their experiences. As we stay in one place for years, we accumulate an enormous surplus of unused stuff. A Franciscan priest I enjoy listening to recounts how as a young friar he was encouraged, perhaps required, to go through his room once a month and get rid of anything that wasn’t being regularly used. How smart is that?
I’m always happy to remember we are descended from wandering tribes. Who surely didn’t carry much surplus to requirements stuff. In the end we have to trust in finding any materials we need, when we need them, in the place we are at that time. Until which time we do not need to be carrying them, and certainly not storing them away just in case.
I feel inspired, in a relaxed way, to keep moving. I don’t think any of us were made for a sedentary life. We are more ourselves in motion, more what we were made to be. We know in our hearts, that even when we are as still as we can be, our journey is ongoing. I believe we are encouraged to maintain a state of flux, a conscious acknowledgment of the present, which is always on the cusp of the future. As we manage even for a moment, to be in such a place, we are one with the universe, with our destiny, with our eternal loving source of everything.