My first night staying in the new house, with tender hearts Luna and I climbed into bed amidst a stack of books that felt like comfort and familiar old friends. I asked for a sign, an oracle that would tell me everything would be okay, and this is what I found when I chose a book from the pile and opened it to a random page (thank you for this blessing, Christine). Mostly I cried more than I slept, missing my kids, missing my old life in a way that can best be described as the grief of death. I'm still in the dying it seems, neither here nor there. My house feels so unfamiliar and big and empty, and so far from Home.
Not having moved in over a decade, I'd forgotten how a place has so many nuances of character, its smells and sounds and even how the light and warmth gather differently from one room to the next. Having two bathrooms feels disorienting. The windows still have no blinds. I can't decide which lights to leave on or off. Yesterday, I filled the fridge which seems impossibly large. It feels like trying to take up space, one little move at a time.
I'm now on a busy street compared to the quiet solitude of Plum Island, and I found that I was so grateful for the noise of cars wooshing by, like wave after wave of the ocean I left behind. This is what eventually lulled me to sleep.
And so it's like this.
One day, one moment to the next.