Hello! I'm Angie.

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Wherever we go, we take ourselves with us

 Moving on

Moving on

I opened the car door and stopped to take a final look at the cute cottage--- my home for the past six years. My husband and I bought the house because it was perfect for our lifestyle then-- back when I stopped cooking dinner on Tuesdays and date nights were much more frequent. When you're in walking distance of trendy bars and restaurants and about a two-minute drive from downtown Charleston, who wants to eat in? About a month later, as I sat in the rocking chair on my new front porch. I had a vision. I saw myself holding a child. A month after that, I was pregnant. When we learned we had a healthy baby boy on the way, we painted his room yellow and decorated his walls with a sun, palm tree and fishing net. I nailed wooden letters above the crib: Dillon's Beach Shack.

When our son learned to walk, we built a white picket fence (no, I, technically, did not build it myself) to keep him out of the street. When he got older and learned to ride a bike, I drew an imaginary line near the end of the driveway. "Do not cross!" I warned. Now, his younger brother is ready to follow in his footsteps. I can't believe my second child will be two this summer, and he's already trying to climb over the fence.

I smiled at these flashes of memories as I sat down in the driver's seat and closed the door. I felt the tears filling up in my eyes, and on a whim, I jumped out of the car and ran to the neighbors' house to say goodbye. They must have been out walking their dogs, and that's a good thing, because I didn't really want to cry on their doorstep.

I like to linger with my goodbyes. On your way out, if you stand at the doorway a few extra minutes, chances are, I will hug you twice. But during this scene, I felt my writer-ly self observing the moment-- and she was very aware of how life seemed to be kicking her out the door. Two PODS were already sitting in the driveway-- the renters were moving in the next morning. "It's time to go."

And so I left. I pulled away and let the emotions wash over me-- the strange and unsettling feelings of transition. The moment when you're in between staying and going.

An hour later, at the new house--still a mess with boxes and displaced furniture--I felt something else. Something familiar. I took the kids outside. Dillon rode his bike and Blake toddled down the sidewalk. And as day turned to dusk to a brand new morning, new neighbors stopped by to say hello. Family and long-time friends brought lunch and helped us get settled. I recognized the feeling, because no matter where life takes us, it's the piece that doesn't need a permanent address. Turns out, it travels very well.

Wherever we go, we take ourselves with us. That inner radar that lets us know when we are home.

Peter Walsh is right: It's all too much

The essence of the dream