We moved into the new house on Wednesday of last week and since then it's been a frenzy of boxes and carloads of random things that were in a closet of our apartment and so many recipes for this cookbook I'm so close to finishing.
Usually when we move it's the only thing on my plate, and I tend to be super sentimental and need time to process change. But this time we moved in and kept hurtling forward, so every now and again, in a quiet afternoon moment I'll find myself feeling sad that I'm not sitting in our South End apartment with the big bathroom and the grey granite countertops and the super bright bedroom with a citrus-green wall. I'll be sitting at the kitchen table in a sunny room full of light that I dreamed of for months and wish, not to be back at the apartment, but for something.
I keep forgetting how long it takes for a place to feel like home, and even though I love the house and the yard and the big open kitchen I suddenly feel nostalgic when Rob walks through the door after work and Ender isn't quite sure where to greet him. This is our first move from one place to another in the same city, and I almost feel like I'm channeling some of those new state vibes, even though we've been in Charlotte for almost two years and only moved ten minutes down the street. We had such a routine in the apartment, and now we're in the house but only slightly unpacked, so it feels like a great many different things, and none of them are really home yet.
Also, I'm tired.
I have written 118 pages in three weeks and I can almost see the light at the end of the tunnel. What an opportunity though, to write a book--as soon as I catch my breath I'll take the time to properly acknowledge the fact that one of my most passionate dreams came true.
Until then, some thoughts from a woman up to her elbows in Brussels sprouts and boxes, for you on a Tuesday.
