For the love of tacos, remind me next time that moving in the middle of “the season” is not a good idea. Since the move, everything is weird & feels out of sorts. I feel weird & out of sorts. I can’t seem to get solid footing. Change messes with me.
One evening after dinner, about two weeks after moving, Chris (who was in the midst of the unpacking…everything) mentioned how amazing it was to have so much space and how awesome the yard would look in a year. (The man loves his huge, lush lawn.)
“Maybe we’ll have room to grow here, ” I said. “On Crocus, that place was so tiny. It was like having a plant that you couldn’t transfer to a bigger pot when it outgrew the current one. We couldn’t grow, we were stunted.”
I couldn’t have been more truthful, and I didn’t realize it until later.
With space comes growth, with growth comes change, and sometimes change is incredibly painful. Yes, of course, sometimes it’s amazing & positive & pancake breakfasts. But even the idea of potential pain is often enough to stymie my fortitude on a good day, let alone a bad one.
My discomfort, however, is balanced by the new discoveries of the house, the neighborhood, the geography in general. I never thought I’d sit on the front porch & watch the bats hunt in the evenings. Or the weird fact that we’re in the air pattern now, even though we only moved 6 miles. Watching the cats in any number of windows. Establishing a routine, which has been lacking & taking it’s toll. Without a set routine, I function poorly. But every day, the kinks become just a bit more smooth.
I’m typing this in my new office at home, which is bigger than our previous bedroom. First time I’ve sat at my desk. I’ve got one cat snoring behind me, and one sprawled in the doorway. At this moment, I can’t believe we live here, how fortunate to have this opportunity. I’m trying not to waste it.