Move
I moved, age 23, from my parents' house directly to my current home. It was rough and ragged, had barely enough heat from the single woodstove to keep it above freezing, no insulation, hinky electric, and I had next to no furniture, but the relief was similar to being released from hell. All I had to move were my personal possessions from my childhood room; clothes, a bit of paperwork and craft/sewing supplies, a sewing machine and a wooden chest. (Now that I think of it, I should probably write a separate post describing the house at that time. I have a few photos.)
It was certainly a mixed bag, emotionally. However, I can certainly be glad that I never had to move again. In fact, since I only moved the contents of one room, you might say I've never had the full experience of 'moving house'. The closest I came was helping my husband move in a few years later, from his apartment a few miles away.
I would hate moving. I am grateful for the luck I had and the decisions I made. However, after vacuuming the same floors for thirty two years. After cleaning the same house for thirty two years. I do feel kinda 'done'. I just never want to clean in here again. I have to, and I will. But I can see how moving and starting fresh in a new space would have at least a little appeal.
This morning I need to take the truck up on the ridge and, hopefully with my daughter's help, prune back some overhanging branches along the cell tower road. Not the most fun thing one could do on a Sunday morning in summer, but at least it's outside. This chore has been on our list for, um, over a year, now.