Championing the makers, artists, and wanderers in all of us.
We finally have everything moved over to the new place – bookcases that need to be reunited with their shelves, a disassembled desk, an armchair that’s still covered in shrink wrap, stacks of boxes and bags and baskets.
But we got our bed set up. And the coffeemaker plugged in. And, even if there’s nowhere to sit in the living room, the patio is quite cozy.
Despite this cardboard jungle phase, it’s already starting to feel like home.
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I have a packed suitcase, and I won’t be sleeping in my own bed tonight – but I’m not going anywhere.
My bed, my dresser, and various other furniture items and boxes of things are already in our new place, down the road.
Moving is a little like standing in a doorway. Or like the feeling when the edge of an ocean wave foams up over your ankles and then pulls back, dragging the sand beneath your feet with it, until just when you think you might lose your footing completely, and it withdraws, leaving you alone to steady yourself in the sand. Piece by piece, everything shifts, and then it’s done, and you find your balance again.
Tonight, we’ll roll out sleeping bags on the floor. In a matter of days, we’ll have these rooms emptied and cleaned out, and we’ll lock the door on the bittersweet memories of our years here and begin to settle in to a new space.
It’s only a few miles away, but it feels like a fresh start.
