Holding on, Holding you back, Pinehurst, and Tears

October 8, 2008 was emotional; it was the day we moved. I know for some– moving is a yearly thing-lol. Me; the only address I’d ever known since I was 15 months-old was Pinehurst. I was raised there and my mother was raised there. I knew every creek in the floor, the trick to unlock the back door, the problem with the basement bathroom, and all the best hiding spots. But it was time: our youngest daughter was due any day, we needed more space, and I needed a legitimate home office/studio.

Knowing all of this didn’t make moving any less painful. When this house was bought in 1964, it was my grandfather’s “I’m moving on up” moment. He worked the overtime at the plant, he saved the money, he made the down payment, and he paid off the house. Now here I was, staring my family off in the exact same house. His legacy became my pride.

But at times; “holding on” can “hold you back.” I was clinging on to a sense of comfort, a part of my world that even in marriage still made my wife feel like a visitor. That house represented the cocoon my grandparent’s built around me after my parents died. It was my retreat away from the world.

5 years earlier I had struck up a conversation with a stranger. He was about 40, bald head, and business savvy. He was in the rental property game and also a law school student. He sized me up as if I was on a job interview; we talked education, work, and entrepreneurship. He asked why I was still on Pinehurst. He told me to move out, get a condo and make Pinehurst rental property. I laughed his words off without a rebuttal. He stared at my laugh said, “One day you’re going to look around and all the reasons you’re staying there won’t matter because everyone else will have moved on with their lives.”

“holding on” can “hold you back.”

Though I still didn’t agree: I did feel the weight of his words. This applies to a lot of things right? Relationships, jobs, and even dreams in some cases.

“holding on” can “hold you back.”

It took us about 4 days to move, slowly but surely, one box after another. The last day I walked around the empty house trying to pocket as many memories as I could - the empty space that belonged to my mother’s piano, a closet shelf once staked with grand ma’s hats and the vacant living room that served as my first studio. I sat on the floor one last time and cried.

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