It feels like just yesterday that I arrived in NorCal, unpacking too many boxes and setting up shop in what I thought might be my last house. Life has a way of making a joke of the best-laid plans, does it not?
I sit here tonight, surrounded by ZippGo boxes, knowing that my move this week will be far from my last. Instead of planting deep roots as expected, I have signed up for a bit of an itinerant life for the next couple of years. The next stop on the schedule is a home in the country -- well, in what passes for country in Silicon Valley, anyway -- for the next fifteen months or so. Fifteen months of looking at this view while I try to figure out where I want to be, what I want to do, with whom I want to do it, and more:
This is the first house I have ever picked just for me, with the kids in mind, of course. I set foot upon these grounds, and the thought that washed over me as I stood on the back deck, looking at the trees and the greenery and City in the distance and the mountains and the water was: "This is where I can heal."
This is where I will heal.
Moving is hard, but that just involves putting stuff in boxes and taking it out again. It is the sentiments that cannot be unpacked so easily that choke me up these days -- like remembering how much I was looking forward to watching my orange tree grow up with my son, or how, when I first saw the window seat in this family home, all I could think of was my daughter curled up on it with a book and a dog.
There will be new dreams, and new memories, and a lot to look forward to; I know that. In this moment, it remains hard to keep perspective alongside what feels like a giant mess, literally and metaphorically. That said, I remain unafraid of the future; I embrace its uncertainty and only can hope that this detour from a predictable life will yield great adventures and fulfillment beyond my expectations.
It is time to move, and it is time to move on. Goodbye, family home. Welcome, new life.