Moving House, Taking Flight

In Scots we 'flit' when we move house. A transitional light-footed verb, harking-back perhaps to the days when the feudal Factor came by horse to torch the thatch on your wee But'n'Ben, driving the weans to Nova Scotia or, worse, the crowded slums of Glasgow.

And flitting is often parked right up there in the top cortisol-raising events such as divorce, bereavement or a car pile-up. For good reason. It is a turning-point, a junction with exciting and terrifying ramifications, a portal from one life abandoned to a new outlook.

Those who hate change, we all need a little certainty somewhere, fear the new routines that must be adopted from this new address.  The shops, bus-routes and neighbours all must be discovered anew. The bedroom door's in a different corner.  The creaks at night unfamiliar.  Sometimes the people with whom you live, or no longer do, are an adaptation themselves.

Those who crave change, excitement, challenge, uncertainty have never experienced true loss. Either that or a loss has scarred them so badly they feel they can never settle again.  They strive ambitiously for success, which to them is defined as bigger, faster, newer... more!

Either way, change must come.  Whether 'tis welcomed or feared maketh no difference.

And before the week is out new routines will be familiar.  New irritations jostle alongside new delights discovered by this adventurer in a new land.  The optimist will have decorated displays. artfully arranged tapestries and candles, welcome party planned.  The foot-dragging pessimist will lie beneath the duvet, vowing to unpack when the seasons change.  But, either way, the road must go on and the journeyman makes his own adventure, be it happy or sad.

Maybe this time will be different.