I have been fortunate enough to move a lot in my life. The fortune lies in learning about new places, gaining a richness of experience, and meeting new friends. I have lived in Buffalo, Wyoming; Tucson, Arizona; Salaga, Ghana; and Ottawa, Ontario. I moved from Montreal to Lethbridge, Alberta, and from there to Calgary, where I will stay. I once spent a summer travelling between Montreal (where I was born and raised) and Abitibi, in Northern Quebec. I also lived intermittently in the Quebec Laurentians, in a town called Lachute, for a field study program. We would go home on the weekend. I can also add Saint-Adolphe-d’Howard to that back-and-forth lifestyle, thanks to a summer camp job (any Pripstein alum among my readers?).
One thing always stood out in my moves: I had to buy a new bottle of ketchup. I think back to all those condiments. What did I do with the unfinished bottles? Why was I even buying ketchup? I don’t even like it that much. My most memorable take-along, however, was a blank notebook. I would have my housemates write, draw, and share in them, and they contain such richness from a time before cellphones.
Each move was a deeply immersive experience, with everyone fully present - sharing living spaces, fridges, meals, chore wheels, and, of course, parties. Maybe the ketchup was my icebreaker. I remember chatting with my new roommates in Buffalo. They were heading out on a shopping trip when I blurted out, “I have ketchup, and you’re all welcome to use it!”
Connection is vital to our shared experiences, and the more diverse the group, I feel, the better. I have memories of disagreements that ended with drinks shared over a fire. I remember passing the talking stick (yes, an actual stick) so that everyone had a chance to express their side. I remember going for walks to maintain that connection when the group moved on.
I have kept in touch with some friends I made along the way. We share the experience of living together, working ourselves to the bone, and relaxing together. We grew up alongside one another during the awkwardness of our early 20s. We supported each other through breakups and celebrated triumphs at work (once, we found a moose skull while collecting beetle specimens in the thick regrowth forests of Northern Quebec - an exciting and rare find!).
Those days are far behind me, but they are a good reminder that shared experiences add so much to our lives. My most recent (and hopefully final) move to Calgary has been challenging. The unfortunate part of moving is how much work it is. Sorting, packing, giving things away, letting things go, leaving friends, and leaving your community can put a serious strain on your wellbeing.
Where I would normally thrive in a new home, making quick friends with neighbours, parents at my kids’ schools, or striking up conversations with fellow dog owners on walks, It was just too much.
In the days when I would buy a new bottle of ketchup, now even the simple act of getting to know my very lovely neighbours was not something I worked on. Maybe it’s due to having young children, going through perimenopause, and missing my Lethbridge crew. A blank notebook and fresh condiments don’t seem to be cutting it. That’s when I remembered: all of the connections I’ve made are still there.
A move can be a jarring experience. I have a lot of gratitude for my healthy, loving, and thriving family. I know that I am lucky. But wow, am I tired.
I may not have had a cellphone in my earlier days of globetrotting and moving around, but I have one now. It’s a good tool to get back in touch with some of the people I lived with over the years. It turns out many of them are also perimenopausal, with small children. They’re exhausted too. I may not be carrying a blank notebook anymore, or offering ketchup to new roommates, but the connection is still there. It always has been. And in the end, it’s connection—not the place, or the move—that saves us.