Looking at the calendar, this July will mark three years since I moved to Portland.
Which does a lot to explain my antsy feet.
It’s something that’s defined my adult (ha!) life so far– every three years, I pack up and move Somewhere Else.
Chico to Sacramento.
Sacramento to Portland.
And here I am again, three years later, with very little tying me down. I live in a city I love that doesn’t seem to love me back.
(Except for my church)
No permanent job, few local friends, and even they are looking eastward.
Choices swirl around me, agendas proposed by people with my ‘best interests’ in mind. They all start with ‘MOVE’.
I’m tempted to get a coin and start flipping.
Or just flat out flip out, start my own religion, and wander the United States in a nun’s habit, my veil slightly askew, chain smoking and following around the hellfire street preachers, laughing hysterically.