Moving is tough.  Even moving to a place you’re familiar with is tough.  We’re in the middle of a move back to Tokyo—I say “middle” because our household goods have yet to arrive—and the lack of access to "Game of Thrones" leaves me with time to reflect on a life of moves. 

As an Army Brat from the time I was 2, through now, at the tail end of my own military career, I have made somewhere in the vicinity of twenty-four moves, most to or from somewhere in Northeast Asia, generally Korea or Japan.  It never really gets easier.  You never really get used to it.  Moving sucks!

Don’t get me wrong, it can be fun, or even welcome to step out of an old situation into a new one.  Kind of feels like hitting the reset button on your Xbox.  Though, to be honest, as a brat, I’ve nothing with which to compare this life, and so can’t really tell you what I’m missing.

As I get older, I do look forward (I think) to settling down and living in one place for a long period of time, but this is just a suspicion on my part.  I really don’t know.  I do think I’d like to be part of a more permanent community, maybe watch neighborhood children grow up into adulthood, possibly join a town or village as it makes decisions that affect the future.  But again, this is all conjecture.

Regardless, it’ll require my concept of “home” to change.  It’ll have to change to something the vast majority of you would more likely recognize, perhaps, but which for me, right now, is somewhat alien.  “Home” right now, is simply the place where my wife lives, where I return each night (or as close to that as can be accomplished), where I can relax.  The concept is simple, understandable, and eminently self-contained.  Doesn’t rely upon anybody else, doesn’t require input by any outside party, doesn’t require a ton of engagement with the neighbors . . . because either you or they will likely move within the next year or two.

It’s the concept of home shared, I think, by most military families in the United States with it’s forces deployed around the country and around the world.  I fall into a sub-culture within the military sub-culture in that as a brat, I don’t really have a hometown.  I grew up all over the place, living parts of my life in five different states and one foreign country.  This does not lead to a deep connection with any one place on earth, there is simply nowhere that really calls me “home.”  Again, this all makes the concept of retirement, and any post-military life, a little difficult to imagine.   

On the other hand, all the moving results in bumping up against a new set of humans with regularity.  The number of people I’ve met through all those moves staggers the imagination!  A daunting thought for an introvert, but my rolodex of acquaintances and friends changes with the weather as I move in and out, and others around me do the same.  I can honestly say I have friends on six of seven continents right now . . . and only because I don’t know who’s currently at Antarctica!  And real, flesh-and-blood friends, not merely those found on Facebook—though that is often the easiest way to stay in touch across so many miles.

Oddly, though it might seem to outsiders that military men, women, and associated family members by necessity make a large number of fairly shallow relationships, when we meet one another again, sometimes years later, observers could easily think we’d been the very best of friends.  It’s as if the large parade of humanity that passes into our sphere makes the rare recurrence that much more meaningful.  I’ve found this phenomenon often heals old wounds, and well-remembered enemies easily become the best of re-acquainted friends.  I’m not sure this has a parallel in a more static environment.  Part of me suspects the stagnant nature of things is what feeds long-standing family feuds that seem to exist in most small towns, and every large metropolis. 

I guess, what brings me to this place in a rather rambling post is that in a few years, I’ll need to make that transition to a more sedentary, static life myself.  It won’t be easy, but we’ll find a way to make it work.  We’ll be the new family in town, and as such will be suspect, but over time, we’ll become part of a real, honest-to-goodness community.  It’s a daunting task—especially for me—but an endstate I welcome.

Regardless, that endstate comes only after at least one more move . . . one more segregating of goods into various shipments . . . one more round of supervising movers as they pack and ship valuables and keepsakes . . . one more new environment to feel out . . . one more new job to learn.  And so, at the end of it all, I guess, this all brings me full circle in that . . . well . . . moving sucks!

M. G. Haynes