Moving into our new house makes me feel like a college freshman again.
Fifteen years ago I moved from Los Angeles’ suburbs into the humidity of Charlottsville’s old dorms where the cicadas never stopped. That first night I stayed awake wondering how my atheist roommate slept so soundly.
I was a stranger in a strange land.
But this time, I’m older and so very wise. So moving should be a cinch.
I’ve only moved 300 feet up Thorpe Mountain, the birds and air and weather should be the same.
But it’s not a cinch.
Our cabin sits down a path where no car can drive, so we must wheelbarrow (yes, I know) every load up the path, up the hill, up the hill and across the footbridge into the house.
I’m not complaining, I’m just pointing out it’s not cinchy.
And the place is beautifully different from the cozy cabin.
The air sweeps down the mountain, the birds sing boldly at 4:48 am, the sunrise is a full 30 minutes sooner as it crests the ridge.
I have a bathroom options, no more queuing up to use the loo.
My son sleeps in another room and I have to walk across the house to hear his gentle breath.
I have to hunt to find my husband.
In bed, we don’t have to whisper in the dark.
We can rumba in the dining room to Pink Martini without waking our son, not that we do, but we could.
Without our wireless up and running we must step down the hill to our cabin to get any work done. So the evenings are spent reconnecting with the ancient practice of reading: Hunger Games for him and My Name is Mary Sutter for her.
Yesterday, our carpenter asked how I like the new home. “I feel like Queen of the Woods,” I told him.
“Thank you,” he said. I hadn’t realized I was complimenting him. But I was.
I didn’t tell him that I also feel like Alice in Wonderland, shrunk down to a petunia in the wood.
We’ve moved from 700 t0 2500 square feet.
I can actually lose my son. (So here you are mijo, re-organizing the wine fridge!)
The new house is bound to do wonderful things for my legs, stair-stepping in my hunts for Finn.
I don’t even want to think of cleaning it. With great power comes great responsibility.
Three bedrooms, three bathrooms… might as well be the Taj Mahal.
Hence the Queenly status, except I’m not entombed in marble.
I’m very much alive in anticipation of the feet that will step over our threshold.
I have big plans for this home, plans for good parties and long, late conversations with new and old friends at Gatherings (btw only three days to apply for Gold). I have book club with the Yellow Jackets (yes, this is our name) in two weeks to discuss Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close (have you read it? well, stop reading this and go to it!). I want to have an open house to share the furnished insides with the men and their families who built our home.
I want to teach a Bible study again with Dale (the summer going through Mark was just yummy in my soul)
And when everyone goes home, I can walk up the stairs to a bedroom
where we can read without book lights
and talk without whispering
or watch a movie without headphones
or make love in the light, again.