It isn't that I can't stay still. I have been here seventeen years now. I have seven and a half years with my current employer. Sure I have moved form this neighborhood to that one, from this job assignment to that one, from this multi-year relationship to that one (with the requisite pause to morn in between). Still, my nature leaks through even while I try to overcome it by force of will.
When I first saw the Pacific Northwest I had the concept of a place for me burned into my soul. I told my self when I stop moving it would be here. Then I imagined a place for stuff, for books, a nest to return to, cocooned safety. That is what the home I make represents.
Every time I visit a place, anyplace my heart says stay awhile. So far every time I return to this home. I return because I want roots. The roots that no human ever will have, root I cannot steal from the elm or the Douglass fir, roots I cannot even steal from the clover or the blackberry. I do not have, can not have the kind of human roots that come from generations in a place. I must be satisfied with these shallow, new and fragile, roots. The ones I choose to sink into this place or any other. I must do that or I must let the wind blow me where it will. Where ever the next food for my soul can be found.