We are in our new home now – a condo, actually, with gorgeous views of the Atlantic Ocean. It’s still a big mess, lots of boxes to unpack and we haven’t touched “decor” yet. Our wonderful, familiar king-sized mattress did the job of helping us feel a bit homey. Then King used it for a litter box! (It’s OK, he’s stressed and trying to adjust).
But when we went back to the cottage to retrieve last-minute paraphernalia, I had an unexpected, and vigorous, cry. The old house was so good to us – we knew every crack and groan, every scent from the lush garden. But we had decided we wanted to move, to downsize and simplify, so we did. So what were the tears about?
I reflected on this (naturally — the unexamined life being not worth living and all that), and I think age is part of the answer. The future, while still promising, is foreshortened. We aren’t going to buy a dozen more homes, maybe only two or maybe none. So as any of us who’ve crossed the mid-line have noticed, every day seems more valuable, and change can feel momentous.
We only live in one direction, forward, so on we go with plans large and small. New views, both physical and emotional await. But a good cry is OK too, for leaving and changing and moving on.