Life Lessons: Fifteen years after a move

Frances Ray, whose Substack newsletter "Beautiful Strangers" is one of my very favourite reads, writes here of a visit to her former village, where she stayed alone in her former home, which now belongs to a friend.

Her reminiscence is poignant; she says, "I realized I was in mourning. Not for the village which was doing just fine, flourishing actually. But I was missing the self who used to live there, who didn't realize the cost of leaving, a recurring theme in my life."  

I read that just as I approached the 15-year anniversary of the move from our family home of 25 years to a condo in another city, both dense urban settings, but so different. 

The moment we signed the sellers' agreement, the real estate agent viewed our home, with its doorways scored with the escalating heights of children, the permanent scars from parties and pets, and the quirky wallpaper as a cash cow. A crew turned papered walls into white blankness, scarred floors into buffed perfection. 

Immersed in boxing and divesting, we gave little thought to the psychological disruption, but were mournful to leave our cobalt-blue AGA cooker, the sole possession we still miss:

We returned to our old home city last week. When greeted warmly by a shop owner I had not seen for fifteen years, I thought of the concept of social capital: the value of social networks. 

Social capital meant Le Duc was "the red Volvo wagon", I, a familiar face at the park, would be asked to briefly mind a child. When your teenagers have a party while you're away, the neighbours practice a refined skill: keeping an eye on the revelry without actually intruding. Even the petty criminals knew us. Once, one knocked on our door and said, "I know who stole your kid's bike and I can get it back." (He did, for a small ransom.)

As Frances says, one also moves "the self who used to live there", and like all moves, some things get dented. In May 2011, we arrived in a city where we had zero social capital. Last year I realized we've accrued a modest amount: the dépanneur calls if Le Duc leaves his wallet at the counter; we have the keys to other residents' apartments; the panhandler at the métro entrance knows our sons are always good for a few loonies. We have made friends, though some have since moved to be nearer family, and others died.

In our former city, our longtime friends are pondering what's next. They fret about finding a new doctor, mechanic, handyperson. They parse financial scenarios, try to time a skittish market. Too many unknowns paralyze a few, others study the options, then act. I suggest they factor in what we largely ignored: How might they integrate into a new community? 

Allison, who strolls through the Passage regularly, is in the selling stage. Claire once told me she would live in her house "until I have to go down the stairs on my butt", but just moved to a senior's apartment complex in the same area of her city. Marilyn and her partner dither,  tired of their house and locale but unsure where to go. When she turned age 80, Renée received heartfelt pitches from her daughter and niece. One would convert her home to make her a private suite; the other suggests they share a duplex—but each option entails move of over a thousand miles. 

Though successfully resettled, certain aspects took longer than I anticipated: meeting sympatico friends, finding skilled tradespersons, coping in a new language. 

I learned that the wisest do not so much pull up roots as tenderly transplant. New growth will take time and attention.

What about you? Staying where you are, exploring options, or resettling this very year?