And, I'm at it again, packing up those books I love, in preparation to giving them a new home. One with more space and scope, one that's a bit of a dream come true. Each new house I've lived in has held some exciting progress: moving away for the first time, and then a place to myself, and then a place grand and beautiful. This next stage on the journey holds a piece of each of those places, and a whole new experience into the bargain. It promises freedom and retreat, creative expression and challenge, nostalgia and an unknown future. It is a place that has been beautiful before, and will be beautiful again, but this time it will be mine.
Perhaps strangely, it feels like a natural progression forward, rather than a step back, to be returning to the small town I lived in for several years, before moving to the cities. It amuses me that Go west, young man, go West, is still an answer to wanting elbow-room, freedom, and affordable housing. . . Although as I think about it, my heart can't help but break at the thought of all the native peoples who were displaced by Western Expansion. The spot I am returning to was once the land and home of the Oceti Sakowin, the Wahpekute, Wahpeton, and Yankton peoples. I will remember them, and respect these Minnesota plains I cross more often these days. I am not sorry to be once again taking up residence where I can smell the fields, plant things in the ground, and create a sanctuary for the bees and birds.
After several years, sporadically documented here, I am leaving the city. It was nearly five years ago I decided to be intrepid, move out, and try a year in the city. It seems half a life-time ago, I am such a different person to who I was then. A little more battered, but a lot more brave. Carrying a little more sadness, and a lot more strength. I've taken on a little cynicism, and a great deal of confidence. I have new edges, and new compassion. My poetic soul has new dark circles under its eyes, but believes, stronger than ever, in the power of a brand new day. Fresh starts.
Like the one I'm taking now. More than anything, because I'm ready to stop living an in-between kind of life; one where I feel like I'm waiting to begin. I want to begin. And I've found a place to do it. Somewhere I think I can be the person I want to be, live into my values. Room to expand and create, to move and do yoga, to cook and bake and entertain. A home that I can invite others into, fill with hospitality, guests, and laughter. A place to let the imagination run free, to return to in solitude, to be an endless project, a home base. Where I can take the long view, plant perennials, decorate my dream house, leave nothing undone just because 'I'll get to it someday'. Someday is now. This is life, and we're never more ready. It's not an arrival, it's movement. We have to step forward. Grow. Life is a long path faithfully trodden, mileposts left behind one after another.
The house I last lived in with my parents, stands empty, waiting for me. My favorite house, all covered with vines. Bare rooms ready to be made over to suit my waking dreams. Endless projects and scope for imagination and creativity. The blueprint of the house, the bare bones, I know well. (I may still be able to skip the squeakiest step while running down the stairs.) And yet, ever corner is new, because its mine. Because the colors will change, the textures, and lines, the designations and aesthetic. I am crazy excited, and will be sharing the entire process here as much and as often as possible. Hold onto your hat!
