The desire comes and goes, though lately it's been all over me like a bad itch. I try putting it out of my mind, crazy distractions, humming, pinching myself -- anything to make the craving go away. But it's there, always there, and it's getting bigger and louder. Seven years is a long time, a voice whispers in my head. Seven years. What used to be comfortable is feeling a little too familiar, a little too settled. I want adventure and novelty. I want a way out of my hectic, cluttered, messy world and into some serene, tranquil place with smooth wooden floors and deep shady corners. I want a different, more gracious life, one that I drift through wearing unwrinkled linen and interesting native jewelry, while running my fingers over tabletops free of junk mail, keys, and magazines. I want to move.

I hate moving. I hate packing. I hate unpacking. I hate getting a new phone number, new checks, a new license. The disruption and chaos that comes with stuffing your life into boxes and dragging it across town has been enough -- but just barely -- to keep me put. But now I find myself paging through the real estate ads and slowing down to look more closely at For Sale signs in yards. It's not a bigger or better house I want; my house is perfectly fine. It's not a bigger or better yard. What I yearn for is a different kind of neighborhood; maybe the kind that doesn't really exist outside of movies or TV shows. Presently we live in a development of fewer than twenty homes. Not really a neighborhood, we're more of an island, a little patch of grass and driveways buffeted on all sides by busy roads. It's hard to walk or bicycle alongside that sea of traffic, and when you do it's noisy and smelly and a little dangerous. We feel marooned, and the only thing that stops us from putting a message in a bottle and sending for help is the sure knowledge that any bottle we tossed would promptly be crushed by a speeding SUV.

The neighborhood I daydream about has sidewalks on both sides and is laid out in a grid, with no dead-end cul-de-sacs to slow you down. In this neighborhood, you can walk or run for blocks without ever crossing a major road. There are stores nearby, maybe even a restaurant or two. There are trees. There might be an elementary school, with a playground and a metal slide buffed smooth from years of use. And on summer nights, the tinny music of an ice cream truck can be heard at least three blocks away. My dream neighborhood would have all different kinds of houses: some very nice -- and some that look like Boo Radley might be hiding in the basement. All of the houses would be older, with window seats and real attics. They would be houses like you see in movies, with interesting angles and welcoming kitchens. It couldn't be a perfect place, because there are no gates or covenants, which means anyone and anything could happen. There could be tacky plastic yard art, or wild parties, or peculiar additions and improvements. My dream neighborhood might not be the most beautiful, but it would be alive in a way that developments like the one I live in now seldom are.

When we shrink ourselves to fit a developer's notion of community, we trade away real freedoms for manicured lawns and carefully tended shrubberies. Walled off in our little suburban compounds, we forget that it's downright un-American to let a committee dictate what color we paint our house, or what kind of fencing we erect to contain our dogs. This is America after all, where the land stretches forever, and where a fresh start to a tattered life is only a rented moving van away. We believe in second chances and rebirths. We believe we can change ourselves just by changing our scenery. In my heart I know that moving won't make life easier. No matter how wide the sidewalks, I'll still hate to run. Even the perfect house has to be cleaned, and new floors are no more fun to vacuum than old ones. Clutter will follow me everywhere I go. And yet, like the pioneers of old, I'm scanning the horizon, dreaming of new opportunities. I'm pinning my hopes on a move.