Today is my one-month anniversary here in the country. It has been 98 percent wonderful, better than expected – but two percent unpleasant.
Boxes still fill my garage. In all my prior moves, I’ve had another person with me. Unpacking can be almost fun when you’re working with someone else. When you’re alone, it’s easy to procrastinate. My new place has two fewer rooms than did my old place, so there’s the problem of finding a home for all my stuff. I’m glad I got rid of things before I left.
I’ve driven miles on country roads, just enjoying the vast expanses of green. And intricately plowed hayfields. Planted pines stand like soldiers in formation. Dirt roads lead to surprises such as a zebra farm, abandoned mansions, and squatters’ camps. I’ve met the friendliest people in the world. I’ve become a hospice volunteer.
It’s been an adventure to poke around antique and thrift stores to find furniture and accessories for my new place since I left my “beachy” furniture with my old house. I’ve even planted some fall flowers to give some color to my front porch and yardette.
I’ve made new friends. I’ve learned new things about old friends. I’m seeing the world through the eyes of a fifth grader who calls me Aunt. I wear the title proudly. We have adventures in the woods, and his eyes light up when he makes a discovery or makes me laugh.
I don’t worry as much. I sleep better.
Still miserable without my dog. And daily, I wonder why I decided to move into a place that has a “no pets” policy. She did more for my mental health than any pill or blue sky. Wondering how I will be as the months turn cold and I have no one to cuddle with, no one to talk to.
I know this is the right place for me. But I also know that Heaven does not exist on earth.