|Thoughtful graffiti on a gazebo in my village.|
We slowly lug boxes to our new house each time we head over to let in a painter or steam cleaner but tomorrow begins our official move. The movers come Monday. Our Pod arrived today. So very Jetsons my brother’s wife laughed when we described the pod process and how we filled it at our old home and how now it sits waiting at our new one. For me this method of storage is less strange than the fact that we managed to live seven months without all this stuff we needed so badly we paid good money to store it. While I’ve missed my California King and my leather sofas, all those boxes wrapped and stacked upon each other? I could hardly tell you what’s inside them. We did without them for over half a year, surely, we don’t need them.
Speaking of boxes, packing is more complicated with a toddler and should anyone find this blog hunting for the next big thing I suggest the invention of child-proof packing tape. Since my son presumes every package at our doorstep must be for him [which in all fairness, it typically is] he has learned to tear open Amazon boxes with his bare hands. While adorable to see him open a box of diapers in this manner, its a bit more work to pack, then repack, and repeat.
Due to all this repacking and retaping I walked over to our local CVS for aforementioned inferior packing tape this afternoon and tried not to dwell too hard on the whole walking thing and how this is my last weekend in my village. With farm raised burgers. And coffee just down the way. The lovely oak tree that now blooms a vibrant green as woodpeckers and robins perch just outside my window. And Toy Park the most amazing thing to have ever entered my son’s universe. My friends tease me as I bemoan this loss and they’re right, I’m not moving to Alaska. . . still it will be different. It will be nice. But it won’t be this.
K promises if I simply can’t forget my village we can always move back into a charming fixer upper and enroll in every “how to fix XYZABC” course offered in the surrounding metro areas. I might hold him to this. And while this just may be a sweet little lie I tell myself, it does help take away some of the longing for all I’m leaving behind.
All that said I cannot wait to have a house again. To watch a movie with surround sound. Or cook in a kitchen I can turn around in and can hold more than one person. And having a garage, sweet mother of all that is beautiful on this earth, I have missed having a garage. Best of all? I can’t wait to let my son run around screaming and banging pots and being as absolutely true to his inner-monkey as he wishes to be.
I’ve learned so much from my time here. I’ve learned that the years I lived slightly unsatisfied so far from the city never had to be that way and that should I ever find myself unhappy with my circumstances its my responsibility to take the steps to make the change. I might not find a better alternative but its up to me to own it and try to figure it out. I only get one life. It’s worth it to make that extra effort. I’ve learned a morning spent on the futon imagining the conversations of the squirrels outside the window with my son is not time wasted even if the laundry remains unfolded. Most of all, surrounded by so many like-minded people and going through the heartbreak I did last month helped me finally accept that while I may not fit the mold of my faith-based community, there’s no sense feeling badly about it and while I’m moving from hippy-central the place I most fit in here in Atlanta, self-acceptance and reliance does not come from where you are but accepting who you are.
But most enlightening of all? If the three of us could cohabitate in an 800 square foot condo [with one bathroom!] for seven months while walking on tip-toes and come out of it still on speaking terms? We’re doing pretty good.
Here’s to our new home. May the Supreme fill it with His light and mercy and bless us with health and happiness, vegetables that grow, and all that is beautiful and good.