I have moved 18 times in my life. Some of those were fairly inconsequential, such as several from dorm to apartments in college years. Others were significant: leaving my large extended family firmly planted in the midwest to seek the forested Pacific Northwest and on to the high desert country of the Inland Northwest where I now live. Where, if I have my way, I will live to my end.

Packing up and re-locating is a lot of work. Even so, there are some benefits. I got many chances to re-align priorities and cull unneeded possessions. Do I really need 10 champagne flutes, or 6 casserole dishes when, if I make a casseroles at all I only use one or two! Along the way I’ve learned to love Goodwill and what I fondly call the ‘treasure hunt.’

The treasure hunt starts when I move into a new place and begin to uncover all those unique, usually old, discarded things that other’s have left behind, probably hoping the new inhabitants will save them the trouble of hauling the stuff to the junkyard. To me they are valuable artifacts that hold the sometimes untold secret history of a place and provide ample food for my imagination. 

Along the way I’ve collected ancient canning jars, wooden crates, cement bird bath stands, slightly cracked ceramic pots, tall wooden orchard ladders, a deck of tarot cards hidden behind a hole in the wall, the remains of a hand hewn stone foundation and enormous rusted horseshoes.

All these treasures scream stories … Who worked those draft horses in fields without fences? … What mystery did the tarot cards reveal so terrifying that they had to be hidden away from sight? … Who took residence in the house or barn built on the old stone foundation? … So many possibilities held in these cast off objects. 

Perhaps my favorite treasure is a three tined pitch fork. The wooden handle is dried out and broken off so the whole thing is rather short and lightweight, but the tines are needle sharp. This tool fits me perfectly and if the zombies ever come after me, that will be my weapon of choice.

Beyond the lure of the hunt lies the true motivation behind so many moves, something I have been stalking and could only describe as ‘Home.’ Not a house, not something tangible, rather an elusive scent on the wind that took hold of my heart. I have packed up belongings in well worn taped-together moving boxes and tried on different places to live. Each one had pieces of what was calling me … but not the whole enchilada.

Over 20 years ago I wrote out a list of all the things I had been looking for in Home. I called it Shoot for the Moon. I would bring it out every now and then to review it and in all these years my vision of Home remained unchanged.

I believe it was in one of the Leather Stocking Tales that I first encountered the idea of a ‘geography of the soul.’ The notion that within us lies a longing for a place that fits like a glove and deeper yet, fills our soul’s hunger. I have known this hunger all my life. 

As a child growing up in the very urban area of Chicago my imagination reached out to a land I had never seen. A place filled with deep green trees, rolling hills, sculptural stone, vast horizons, and magnificent mountain peaks. I may have been surrounded by asphalt and brick buildings, but my spirit was running wild through breathtaking wilderness … this implanted vision spawned my many moves. 

Josephine Hart beautifully said it this way …

“There is an internal landscape, a geography of the soul; we search for its outlines all our lives. Those who are lucky enough to find it ease like water over a stone, onto its fluid contours, and are home.”

I have been “lucky enough” to have found Home. Nine years ago I had a full week of fitful, disturbed sleep and other worldly ruminations. I was fairly certain my intuition was nudging me toward something I needed to uncover. I began writing anything that popped into my head. What became apparent was the awareness that it was time to move, yet again.

I am a believer in the mysterious transmissions that can penetrate thoughts throughout the wee hours of the night. A time when waking consciousness is quiet and receptive. I make it my practice upon rising to sort through the random content still rattling around my brain from the source seeking to impart valuable information. Nine years ago, the message was undeniably strong and very clear. I chose to respond at once.

I got on my laptop and for a mere 4 hours searched Craig’s List for properties ‘for sale by owner’ east of the Cascades. I made only one phone call after being struck by images posted on a particular listing. Two days later my husband Dan and I headed east, over the vast wheat fields of Eastern Washington and by early evening pulled in to where we now live. 

The first thing I noticed when we turned onto Bernhill Rd was the Dead End sign and the missing lines on the road. That meant quiet … a good sign. It got even better as the road turned to gravel meaning, more remote. Rounding a wooded hillock a wide, lush pastoral valley opened up before us. At the end of the road we turned into the very long driveway and saw the Goldilocks house—not too big, not too small and just the right mix of character. At every point along the way this place was Home. 

Weeks later in the middle of unpacking all our earthly possessions that were stacked up against the walls and strewn about the floor I pulled out my Shoot for the Moon list. I wasn’t at all surprised when our new home checked off all the boxes. Yes, it took a long time and a lot of effort, and yes, it is worth it.

I think there’s a lot to be said for holding on to a vision with all you’ve got through the inevitable disappointments, and detours, along with the occasional manifestations. In order to have that level of resolve the vision has to be authentic, pure and from the very heart of you. Honing in on that can be tricky but once you have a hold of your deepest desires from the very center of your being, anything else is just window dressing.

I have thoughts about how one gets to the very heart of their desires … That’s the subject of another article!