Not My Plan

NOT MY PLAN

So of course, it’s unfolding beautifully

If there was a title for the first half of my life it would be “Detours.”

Years ago, when I moved to Nashville, my dad asked me what my plan was.

Me: I don’t have a plan

Dad: You don’t have a plan (or a job or, like, money?)

Me: No. I hate plans.

Dad: You hate plans?

Me: Yes, if you don’t have a plan, your plans can’t get screwed up.

It’s totally true.

I’m sure my reluctance to plan is rooted in the fact that I’ve moved so much—an average of every 3.5 years since I was six months old. I went to seven different grade schools before I was in fifth grade. Two of those grades were divided between two states. I moved to and from six states 14 times, in and out of 22 homes in 50 years.

Most of this was wonderful. Every move came with loss. The point is, there was a lot of trying to figure out where I fit in with each new community. My desire for stability for as long as I can remember meant a home, cooking and growing food.  It was my way of connecting in every area of my life.

If there was a title for this chapter of my life, it would be “Prepared.”

The chaos of each transition proved to be a great editor. I got better the more I did it and I pretty much have this moving thing down. It’s time consuming and hard to explain to anyone I know who wonders what I “do” all the time. It also taught me to lean into each transition and trust the new direction I was being led to.

The more I leaned in, the more I saw that each step behind me prepared me for the step ahead. I don’t know how any of this will unfold, but I am grateful for my gypsy path. If I’d have had any other kind of life, buying property in an abandoned village in Italy would seem bat shit crazy.